We Come to Life Beneath the Stars
by Lillybellis
Summary: As Bella Swan starts over with hopes of finding her future, Edward Cullen is hanging on desperately to his past. She's treading water, and he's a corporate golden boy. They share an office, but few words...until one night changes everything.
1. Astronomical Unit

**Chapter One **

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_**Astronomical Unit**: A unit of measure equal to the average distance between the Earth and the Sun, approximately 93 million miles._

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Sometimes, when my mother talks to me, I sit and watch her mouth. Her full, light pink lips move up and down, opening and closing endlessly and with such rhythmic frequency that she looks like a brown-haired, blue-eyed goldfish. She swims around her small town Washington fishbowl every day, all day, circling the same old scenery no matter which direction she turns in. So, I can't really begrudge her the excitement she feels when she gets a glimpse of life beyond her tiny, monotonous world.

That's why on nights like these, when my brother and I are home, we all sit at the dining room table and listen to her ask endless questions about my job, or Emmett's girlfriend, or why neither one of us loves her enough to visit more often. We answer her dutifully, sprinkling little bits of our lives on the surface of the water for her to devour, and she eats them up with abandon, always waiting impatiently for more.

Occasionally, just to make sure she stays on her toes, I lean over and tap on the glass.

"I started a new job," I say abruptly, interrupting her as she tells Emmett the story of how she talked the manager of the Thriftway into giving her a discounted price on spaghetti sauce, even though the sale had already expired. I don't tell her that I've _quit_ my old job, because I figure if I use positive words they will somehow lessen the blow.

"Bella..." Emmett breathes. I don't acknowledge him.

Mom looks at me, holding her empty fork halfway between her mouth and her plate, and _finally_ her goldfish lips stop moving. Now, they're just kind of hanging open in shock, and I fight the urge to reach over and push her chin up to close them.

"I told you to wait until after dessert," Emmett says quietly, leaning over to whisper to me as if Mom and Dad won't be able to hear him through the thick silence that has spread across the room. Emmett pouts and drops his fork on his plate, because he's worried that Mom's going to get upset and forget that she made his favorite chocolate pie for dessert. God forbid Emmett doesn't get a piece of that pie.

Mom sighs, not paying any attention to Emmett, and Dad, well, he just puts another forkful of pork chop in his mouth quickly, as if he wants to fill up while he can before World War Three breaks out.

Before he swallows, Mom fires the first shot.

"You _quit_?" she asks, punctuating that question by stabbing a piece of asparagus angrily with her fork. There's panic underneath all of that fire in her eyes, and my insides churn when I see it. "I thought James asked you to stay on permanently."

"He did," I explain, twisting my poor, abused napkin between my fingers. "But I told him I wasn't interested."

"Not. _Interested_," Mom says, as if the words are foreign to her. "You told him you weren't _interested_." She still sounds confused, but her eyes, her angry eyes are focused only on me, and suddenly I think it might've been a good idea to let Emmett have some of his pie first. "Your Aunt Jane called in some favors to get you that opportunity, Bella. You were on your way _up_."

She's acting as if I don't know this, as if she hasn't brought it up every time she possibly could over the course of my time at that firm. My chest tightens at how quickly a decision I was so sure of begins to seem like a very bad idea. Only my mother can make me feel like this; like everything that was nailed down is beginning to float away, right in front of my very own eyes.

"What is it you're doing now?" She's not yelling, but she wants to.

"I'm an Executive Assistant," I say, but the words slur together, and I'm kind of hoping she doesn't hear me, because if she does-

"Assistant?" She lets out this bitter puff of a laugh. "As_sis_tant." She keeps repeating things, like the words will somehow change if she says them enough.

"Ma," Emmett interjects in an attempt to shield me from Mom's wrath. He's always done this, stepped in whenever I need protecting. "It's not that big-"

Mom silences him with that look she's perfected, the one that used to precede two weeks of restriction and dish washing duties for a month. Even though he's twenty-five now, that look is all it takes to shut Emmett up.

She shakes her head, exasperated. "Bella, you could've gone somewhere with that firm. The opportunities they would've offered you were unbelievable, and now you're just going to _assist_?" She enunciates the last word, and it makes her hiss like a snake. "You've wasted all this time out of college just drifting. No roots, no drive-"

"No drive?" My voice vibrates with anger. "Only _you_ would consider time I spent figuring out what I _don't_ want to do with my life time wasted."

"You don't know _what _you want," she says, but the fight in her is lessening and she sounds resigned and disappointed. What she really means is that I don't want what _she_ wants, and therefore whatever I do will never be valid in her eyes. It will never be good enough.

"Mom," I plead, leaning over my plate to get closer to her. If I get closer to her, so she can see me, really _see_ me, maybe she'll understand. "_You _didn't have to work in that office every day. I couldn't work for James anymore...he's a prick, and I was-"

"_Language_, Bella," Mom says, and I hear Emmett chuckle beside me.

I elbow him in the ribs, because I want to take my frustration out on someone, and I'm wondering what made me think it would be a good idea to tell her about my new job in the first place. I should've just kept my mouth shut and hoped she never called me at work again. Or spoke to Aunt Jane, for that matter.

"Fine." I sit back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest, just like I did when I was a petulant thirteen-year-old. "James is an ostentatious, grandiloquent, maladroit imbecile," I say, shooting my ten dollar SAT words at her like arrows. I know what they mean and she doesn't, and I can see the hurt in her eyes, because she knows what I'm doing.

She remembers those days as well as I do; the fights we'd have over studying and schoolwork back when I was in high school. _She_ was the one who insisted I learn those ten dollar SAT words, and I paid for them with the only currency a teenager has to give: a social life, a boyfriend, a prom.

Mom swallows, and she blinks a few times too, and I immediately feel bad that I've hurt her because I can tell she wants to cry. We've had this fight before. Different words, different players, but always, _always_ the same argument.

"Everywhere you go, Bella, there are going to be people you don't want to deal with, but you have to deal with them. That's life, kid. Life isn't _want_ to, it's _have _to," she says, balling up her napkin and throwing it onto her plate. She rubs her face with her hands, smoothing out the wrinkles under her tired eyes, and I wonder if I'm going to look like her in another twenty years.

"What a wonderful way to live." I push my mashed potatoes into a pile on the far side of my plate. I can't eat any more. My appetite is gone, and I feel sick.

"That's _enough_," Dad says, reaching over to put his hand on top of Mom's, and it startles me because I've forgotten anyone else is even sitting at the table. Dad squeezes her hand and gives her a small smile, even though it looks like it hurts him to do it.

When he turns to me, his face isn't as friendly, but I can tell he's not mad. I feel bad for him, the way he gets caught in the middle of us sometimes. My dad is very judicious and fair; a characteristic that has served him well over his career as a police officer. He's never too quick to judge or accuse: he listens to arguments, collects evidence, and analyzes the data. Unfortunately, that makes him Switzerland in the war between Bella and Renee Swan.

After the table is cleared and the dishes are washed and the dust has settled, Dad will begin negotiations with Mom, and then with me, and sometime during the weekend before I leave, we'll both sign a treaty. It'll hold until we spend another weekend together, and one of us becomes the aggressor in a new battle.

Mom gets up and takes her half-full plate to the sink, not washing it off or anything, just leaving it there. I stare down at my abandoned dinner, and I feel the breeze as she walks past me and up the stairs. I hear her footsteps padding across the hallway, and then she quietly clicks her bedroom door shut. No slam, no anger. Just one small, soft, click.

The way the floorboards creek over our heads, I can tell she's walking toward the bed, and when the noise stops I know she's probably sitting there on the edge of the mattress with her head in her hands, crying. Now I feel like an ass, because I never meant to make her _cry_.

Dad and Emmett both sit here and eat, because neither one of them knows what to do. So I stand up and push my chair in, not even bothering with my dishes, and I walk out onto the front porch. I sit down on the swing that's hung here for as long as I've been alive, and I lean back on the old weather-worn planks of wood, spreading my arms out on either side of me as I begin to rock back and forth. The rusty chains creak, and I take a deep breath as the cool air fans across my face.

I smell the humidity around me as a light mist begins to fall from the sky. As the rain slowly picks up, I close my eyes and let the steady, peaceful calm quiet my troubled mind. I sit there with my eyes closed until night has fallen, and the only light around me is a buttery yellow streaming through the screen door. I watch the light, and a shadow moves across the wooden porch before the door hinges slowly begin to squeal.

Emmett maneuvers onto the porch by holding the door open with his left elbow, carefully balancing a plate in each hand. I smile as he walks toward me, holding a piece of Mom's chocolate pie in my direction. We've had this little ritual for years, the two of us eating pie together on this old swing. It started the day Emmett came to live with us, a couple of weeks after his parents were killed in a car accident on their way home from Seattle to Port Angeles. That night we had our first taste of pie out here, and when we went inside with our plates, he started calling my mother 'Mom' instead of Aunt Renee, and it's been that way ever since.

"Move over," Emmett says, so I slide across the swing, far enough to make a space for him. He sits down and I scooch back, my feet dangling in the air. Emmett's feet still touch the ground, and he gently rocks us back and forth while we eat.

"Sorry about earlier." I know this is the first of a few apologies I'll be offering tonight.

Emmett shrugs, scraping his fork along his plate with a high-pitched squeak. "Well...you had to know that was coming."

"How come no one pesters you about your career goals, or questions your ambition?" Emmett is the manager of the River and Trail Outfitters over in Port Angeles, and as far as I know, Mom's never harassed him about his drive, or given him speeches about 'want to' versus 'have to.'

"Well," he begins, and the left side of his cheek is all puffed out and full of pie, making his words sound garbled. "I think Mom and Dad consider me a success just because I grew up to be pretty well-adjusted. I made it through high school without getting into a ton of fights or offing anyone, so in their eyes, I'm sure they see that as a win."

I've never heard him say anything like that before, and it makes me sad to think that Emmett believes Mom and Dad only wanted him to get to a certain point, without caring if he ever went above and beyond it.

"Em, that's not-"

He smiles. "I know, Bell, I know. I'm just teasing you. Look," he says, moving a bit closer to me before he leans over to put his pie plate on the porch railing. "People will only push you as far as you let them. Mom and Dad, they know my limits, and that's that. You, Bell, you're a people pleaser, and you want to help and make other people happy. Mom knows that if she just keeps goading you, she can push you right on over the edge, and you'll eventually do what she wants."

Emmett puts his arm around me, and I tuck my head against his shoulder. He_ gets _me, and he always has.

"How was your first week of work?" He pats my shoulder lightly as we swing.

"It was okay." I can see Emmett looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of my eye, and I immediately wish there was some way I could reach out, pluck the words from the air, and put them back inside of me.

"Okay? You got into a fight with Mom over something that's just _okay_?"

"Well, I just started," I say defensively. I don't dare mention the enemy I seem to have made in Edward Cullen, because I don't feel like getting a second lecture on how to deal with difficult people. If Mom's good at the guilt trip, Emmett is a master of the lecture. "I want to give it some time before I make any judgments. At least I'm not scared I'm going to get violated in the copy room."

Emmett cringes, and I regret making light of the situation with James.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made a joke like that." James is a creep, and he _is _a prick, but he never touched me. Not once.

"Okay. All right," he replies, even though he doesn't sound so sure. The good thing about Emmett is that he knows when I don't want to talk about something, and he never forces me to.

"You want this?" I ask, placing the plate with my uneaten pie on his left knee. It's a ridiculous question, because Emmett will have eaten whatever is left in the refrigerator by the time we roll out of the driveway tomorrow.

"Do you realize who you're asking?" In a flash, his arm is no longer around me, and he's cradling the pie plate against his chest, shoving huge forkfuls of chocolate into his mouth.

I scoot over a bit to give those two their privacy, and the only sound between us for the next few minutes is metal scraping across glass. When Emmett finishes, he leans over and puts my plate on top of his, where the rain has already formed a small puddle of water.

"When are you gonna tell Mom and Dad about you and Rose?"

Even though it's dark outside and I can barely make out his features, I can tell Emmett is smiling. He always brightens up whenever he talks about Rosalie, like just having her in his life makes him feel light and uncomplicated. It hits me that I've never felt anything like that before. Surely I would remember if I had, wouldn't I?

"Well, tonight was going to be the big night, but you sent that to hell and back," he says, leaning into my shoulder and pushing me a bit.

He's teasing me, and I laugh. I'm so glad he decided to come home this weekend. I don't know what I'd do without him now or..._ever_, really.

"I was thinking I'd have them over for dinner at the house," he says, looking down at his hands. "Rosie makes the best lasagna, and you know how much Dad loves it. I figure Mom will want to see the ring, right? And she and Rose will probably want to talk about cakes or some girly shit."

"Yeah, they'll definitely want to talk about some girly shit," I reply, laughing.

Emmett laughs with me, and I feel like we're both kids again, swinging together into the night during summer vacation, talking about boys and fishing and things that don't really matter. Only we're not kids anymore, and this, well, this matters the _most_, and I wonder what he thinks about it.

"Do you feel all grown up?" I ask, tilting my head to look at him. I want to ask him if he's scared, but I don't.

Emmett is quiet for a minute, but he doesn't look conflicted or anything. He's peaceful and happy. "Nah," he says, shaking his head with a grin. "I still have my Wii and my porn collection. She already has me forever; we're just sealing the deal with some hardware."

That's such a simple way to look at it, really. Uncomplicated, and just so...Emmett. Laid back, easy-going, and carefree. He looks at something, and either it is or it isn't, it does or it doesn't, it will or it won't. Me, I see complications in everything: white, and black, and every shade of grey in between. I wonder if life would be easier for me if I were more like him.

"Do you think you and Jake will ever get married?" He rests his elbows on his knees as they flex, still moving us forward and backward.

The heaviness of his words crush my chest like a boulder, and it constricts under the strain, making it hard for me to breathe. I swallow and think of a way to stall or some witty comment that will take the heat off of me, but nothing comes, even though the unrelenting weight of his question is bogging me down. Emmett notices my silence and looks back to study my face. He stares at me for a moment, and I wonder what exactly it is that he sees.

If he's curious about my silence, he doesn't say so. He just nods his head and stays still for a moment before he stands up, the old chains clanging and the wood creaking from his movement.

"C'mon," he says, reaching out to take my hand in his, and when I'm upright I pick up the plates and carry them inside as he holds the door open for me.

We head over to the sink, and since Dad has already cleared the table, Emmett turns the faucet on and fills each side: one with bubbles, and one without. Dish by dish, Emmett washes and rinses, and I dry as we move the contents of Mom's cupboard through our two-person dishwashing line. We laugh and chat and splash each other with water, just like we did when we were kids, and when we're finally finished I've nearly forgotten about the fight Mom and I had earlier.

That is, until I turn around and see Dad sitting at the table with his arms crossed in front of him, like he's just set up his own mini interrogation room right here in our kitchen.

"Well," Emmett says, stretching his arms out over his head and faking a yawn so big that his mouth is a hole that I could easily fit my fist into. "I guess I'm gonna head up to bed." He pats Dad on the shoulder as he walks by, and he gives me a sympathetic look and mouths, '_I'm sorry_' before he turns to head upstairs.

I glare at him, because he's sorry all right, but not in the way that he thinks.

Dad notices the look I give Emmett, and I hear him laugh. "Sit down, baby," he says, patting the placemat at the empty spot across from him.

I pull the chair out, and the wood feels heavy beneath my fingers as it scrapes against the linoleum. I sit down, scoot in, and grip the sides of the table just so I'll have something to do with my hands. I look over at Dad once I'm settled, and his eyes are soft as he presses his lips together in a thin line. I know this is hard for him; we've had these talks before. Sometimes Mom starts the fight, and sometimes I do, but these talks are always the same.

"I'll apologize," I say, and even though I start off with that because I know it's the surest way to shorten these talks, I really do intend to.

"Mmm-hmm," Dad hums as he traces his finger along the edge of his placemat. He's looking down, and this makes me nervous for some reason. "Wait until tomorrow. She's about had her fill of drama tonight."

I nod, feeling contrite. I wish my mother and I could have a normal conversation without everything getting blown out of proportion, but we've never been able to, so I don't see why we'd start now.

"The thing you've got to understand about your mother is that...she means well," he says, rubbing his chin with the pad of his thumb. He squints his eyes for just a second before he speaks again, and he looks kind of sad. "Ten years from now, she doesn't want you or your brother to feel like you're stuck."

"I _did _feel stuck, Dad." I'm not worried about ten years in the future, not when I have to live here in the present.

Dad shifts in his chair, and he clasps his hands together in front of him. I can tell he wants to elaborate, but he doesn't, because something about this conversation is making him uncomfortable. He just flexes his fingers and looks down at the table before his eyes meet mine again.

"Just promise me you'll really _think_ about what you're doing before you do it."

"I'm not going to stay at this job forever, Dad. I was just...I was in a bad situation, and I wanted to get out of it. That doesn't reflect on my drive or ambition, it just shows that I need to retain my sanity. I'm not looking at this as a downgrade, it's just a stepping stone to something better."

The right side of my father's lips pull up into a half-smile, and he looks amused. I can tell that what I've said has put his mind at ease.

"Good. That's good."

He reaches across the table and pats my hand before he stands up, and he tells me he loves me before he walks upstairs, his footsteps heavy as they pad across the old wood.

An hour later, I'm restless as I lie sprawled across the tiny twin bed that sits in the corner of my old room, and I toss and turn for half the night before I finally get comfortable enough to fall asleep.

When I wake up, I walk downstairs to the kitchen and greet a father and brother who are warm as the sun, and a mother who's so frigid she could give a polar ice cap a run for its money. The four of us spend time together throughout the day, and Mom thaws; she melts a little with every joke and laugh we share. By the time Emmett and I leave, her arms are fluid, and they wrap around me with ease. She pulls me close and kisses my forehead before she tells me she'll miss me and that she loves me.

I tell her I love her and I'll miss her too, and I think about her during my long drive back to Seattle.

When I finally pull up outside my apartment, I sit there, looking up at the second floor window of my living room. The blinds are open, and I can see the flicker of the television across the ceiling. I turn the radio to the channel that's broadcasting the Mariners game, and I look at the clock on the car's console to try to figure out how much time I'll have to wait down here until the game is finished.

I know Jake's routine by heart now; it's been exactly the same for the past two years that we've been living together. Once the game is over, he takes out the trash, then he reads for fifteen minutes, brushes his teeth, and goes to bed. I estimate that I could easily be out here for another hour or so if I want to catch him at bedtime, when he's least likely to engage me in a long conversation about my weekend.

For some reason it dawns on me that I should _want_ to run up there to see him, and I should be_ excited_ to talk to him since I haven't heard his voice for the past couple of days. I think back over the time we've lived here together, and I can't seem to remember the last time I flew up those stairs and into his arms.

Resigned, I turn off the ignition, get out of the car, and open the back door to retrieve my bag. I sling it over my shoulder and trudge up the stairs, flipping through the keys on my keychain as I go, until I find the gold one that fits in our lock.

I push the door open to the sound of the seventh inning stretch, and all I can see from my vantage point is Jake's arm flung over the back of the couch, and his gigantic feet resting on top of the coffee table.

"Hey, babe," he says, lifting his back up off the couch at an odd angle, so that I can only see one eye, the bridge of his nose, and his mouth. The grouping looks odd, like he's a live-action Picasso.

"Hey," I reply, throwing my keys down on the counter. I look in the sink and see about two days' worth of dirty dishes piled there, just waiting for me to scrub them. I can't be bothered with that tonight, because I don't want to start another fight with Jake. I just want to unpack and get into bed.

"Did you have a nice trip?" he asks as I walk by him on my way to the bedroom. His arms are resting across his stomach, and he's wearing the same ragged old T-shirt he had on when I left Friday night.

I turn and try to muster a smile, but it's weak, so weak I can barely feel it. "It was fine," I reply, but I don't bother to elaborate. Luckily, Jake doesn't seem to mind, because there's baseball to watch and dishes to dirty. A thousand trivial things now occupy the place in his mind that used to belong to me.

Forty-five minutes later, the contents of my suitcase are either put away or in the laundry basket, and I'm standing at the edge of my side of the bed wearing one of Jake's huge shirts. I look at the mess on his side, and see that mine remains mostly untouched. I notice that my pillow is all wrinkled and lumpy, lying vertically down the middle of the bed.

I don't know what it is about the gesture that feels so incredibly tender, but I smile when I realize that he's been holding it while he sleeps. The very sad thing is that this is the closest I've felt to him in months.

He walks up behind me as if he can hear my thoughts, and one arm wraps around my shoulders while the other slides across my stomach. He lifts my shirt up so his skin is on mine, and I know there was a time when his touch would set my body on fire. Now when he wraps me up, I just feel weighed down and suffocated.

My head involuntarily falls to the side when he kisses my neck, and I put my hands over his as he touches me, because I _want_ this. I want him to touch me the way that he used to; not just with his hands that have always made me feel so good, but with that wonderful, intangible thing that made our hearts fly, and our skin tremble, and bound us together more tightly than our arms and legs and lips ever could. It's missing, along with everything else that used to make us who we were, and I know that this is our last chance to find it.

He quickly turns me around, and then his lips are on my lips, and they're soft and familiar. They first kissed me like this six years ago, during the summer before my freshman year of college, but the feeling is so different now than it was back then. When our anniversary rolled around last month, Jake didn't remember, and I couldn't forget.

He only stops kissing me to lift my shirt over my head, and he moans softly when his tongue brushes mine. His fingers move up to rub slow circles around my nipple, and at some point in time I must've done something that made him think that I like this, because it's part of his standard routine now. I know him well enough to predict that he'll cup my ass next (he does), and then frantically try to push his boxers down with only one free hand (he does that, too).

We fall on top of the bed in no time, and I watch the blinking dots in between the eleven and the twenty-six on my bedside clock as he rolls on a condom. Before I know it, Jake's on top of me, and he reaches down and runs his finger along the wet flesh between my legs. He's so methodical with his movements that I feel like it doesn't even matter to him that _I'm _here; all he wants right now is willing lips and soft breasts and warm skin.

We're fading away right in front of his eyes, and he doesn't even see it.

When we first fell in love, there was joy in the exploration of the unknown; so many new places for tongues and lips and hands to discover. Now I think he's just got a mental checklist of all the things he needs to do to get my body ready for him, and when he parts my legs and settles between them, I know he's close to the bottom of that list.

I reach up and place my hands on his cheeks, bringing his face down so I can kiss him, because I know, deep down inside of me, that this is it for us. I take his bottom lip between mine, and I try to find just a piece, a tiny_ sliver_ of what used to hold us together; the thing that makes this more than just skin on skin, lips on lips, and body against body.

As our mouths fumble together, I search for that feeling that used to overwhelm me when we touched; the warmth that covered me from head to toe, that made me feel so safe and loose and _loved_ when we were like this. I can't find it. No matter how hard I try, how tightly I squeeze my eyes shut, it's not there.

Jake pushes into me, and I long for the days when that simple movement would make my heart stutter and swell, back when I could get lost in the feel of his mouth on my skin for hours. Tonight I lie back and grasp the sheets beside me as I listen to the way our skin claps together when his body pounds into mine hard, and then harder still. I count how many times I hear the headboard hit the wall, and there are fifty-six thuds before Jake's back finally arches and his eyes squeeze shut, a flurry of sounds falling from his lips.

I grip his shoulders so that his chest presses against mine, because even though he's here, he's right _here, _on top of me and all around me, it seems like he's drifting a thousand miles away. I stretch out to grab him, to stop him before he's out of my reach, but the little bit I could touch has already slipped through my fingers, and I know I will never be able to bring him back. He's gone. We're gone. _Gone_.

Jake's breathing hard and his chest is heaving as he leans down to kiss me. He smiles against my cheek, and his hot breath puffs against my neck.

"Did you come?" he asks breathlessly.

I shake my head. "No." There was a time he would've known the answer to that question, but I don't mention it.

He moves his hand down between us, and I let him touch me there because I just want to_ feel_. I want to feel _something_ when he's this close to me. I close my eyes and I try, _God_ do I try, but there's nothing like there was before. Nothing at all. Everything we used to have has fallen away, and now we're just two empty people who used to be so full of each other, sharing a home and a bed.

"Stop," I say with a shaky voice as I reach down and grab his wrist. I roll over and get up before he can see my face, because I'm going to cry, and I don't want him to think he's the reason. It's me. It's me, me, _me_.

I close the bathroom door behind me, and I turn the faucet on, hoping the sound of the running water will drown the noise out. I cry, I splash my face with water, and I wait until I calm down before I finally open the door to go back in the bedroom.

The room is dark, and through the thin sliver of light that peeks through the curtains, I can see that Jake is sleeping. His Tranquil Moments Sound Machine pumps gentle raindrops through the air, and as I pull the covers over me, I can hear the beginnings of his soft snores.

I lie here for hours and stare at the clock, until I finally turn to look at Jake. He's facing me, and he looks so peaceful. I move closer, because it's easy for me to be with him like this, when there's silence and no expectation. I place a friendly kiss on his sleeping lips, because that's what we became when we let our life drift away while neither one of us was paying attention.

I love Jake, but I'm not _in_ love with him anymore. He deserves to be with a woman who's in love with him and wants him and who runs up the stairs to fling herself in his arms when she hasn't seen him for days.

I've finally realized that I am not that woman.

After we wake up in our sunny bedroom all twisted and tangled in sheets, I make him breakfast like I usually do. Over scrambled eggs, biscuits, and bacon, I tell him that the way we're living is not enough anymore.

"You just realized this over the weekend?" He's sitting next to me at our dining room table, and we're angled toward each other so that our knees are touching. I can tell he's not surprised by the conversation, but he's hurt, that I can plainly see.

My eyes are watery and my face is so hot. I've been crying for the past two hours, because this is the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life. When something is right, you think it'll be easy, but it's not. It hurts like hell and it makes me feel like I'll never be the same again.

"It's been coming for a while." I can't tell him that I've been falling out of love with him for a long time now, because that would crush him. I don't want to crush him, I want him to go out into the world, whole and unbroken, to find the person who can be everything for him that I can't.

Jake looks down, and I know he's rehashing our time together to figure out when we started to grow apart, but I think he knows as well as I do that it's not something that can be traced back to a particular day or time. Over the past few months, the chasm between us has grown so deep and wide that it can't be crossed; the bridge that used to connect us is broken, and we're both standing on opposite sides of it, alone.

"I'm gonna _fight_ for you," he says, taking my hands in his as he moves closer to me. His skin is so warm, just like he is. Everything about Jake is warmth and light, but that warmth and that light is meant for somebody else. It doesn't belong to me anymore.

I struggle to say the words I need to, and when they finally come, they sound more like a sob than a sentence.

"You stopped fighting for me months ago. We stopped fighting for each other," I say, because neither one of us is blameless in this. "We still care about each other, Jake. We need to let go before _everything_ is gone."

Jake says nothing because he knows I'm right, and we sit in silence for a very long time.

The longer we sit, the more Jake's grasp on my hands lessens. When he finally lets me go, I stand up, and I lean down and kiss his forehead. My fingers linger on his cheeks, then they fall from his skin as I walk away from him, and into the bathroom. I turn on the sink just like I did last night, and I splash my burning face with cold water.

I don't know what I'm doing; it's like I'm lost in unfamiliar territory without a map. I can't see what's coming up around the bend, and I don't know which turns to take, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm heading in the right direction.

But that doesn't make this any easier.

Minutes later, when I open the door, Jake is sitting on the edge of our bed with his elbows resting on his knees and his head hanging down. There's an open suitcase laying on the floor beside him.

"Keep the apartment," he says to the floor, as he reaches up to run his hands through his hair. "I'll leave."

"Okay." That's really all I have left in me.

He spends half the day packing, and when he's finished he loads his boxes and suitcases into the back of his rusty old Ford. By nightfall, I'm left alone with my half of our stuff, and enough sadness to fill the building.

I stand in the middle of the living room and stare at the empty spot on the entertainment center where the television used to be. For the first time in years, I miss the sound of cheering crowds and play-by-play filling the room. I sit on the sofa, right on the edge, on the place where I'm least likely to get comfortable, and I fuss with the tassel that hangs from the center of a throw pillow.

A panic begins to bubble in my gut, working its way through muscle and nerves until it reaches my hands, making them shake. I throw the pillow on the floor and stand up, stretching my body from my toes to my fingers, trying to give the panic room to move and escape. But it doesn't budge; it just settles in my chest, squeezing my weary heart between its fingers. It makes my limbs heavy and burdensome, and I'm too exhausted to fight it.

As my eyes wander around the room, across the half-empty shelves and the light spots on the carpet where pieces of furniture once made their home, I realize that Jake filled this place with more than just material objects. His belongings aren't the only things that are missing; _he_ is, too.

When our lips began touching in quick, hurried kisses instead of the long, soft, warm ones that made our clothes melt off and our bodies fall into bed for hours and hours on end, I think my heart began preparing itself for the loss of a lover. But nothing,_ nothing _prepared it for the loss of a friend.

Years ago, when the world was bright and new and spread out for endless miles before me, I sat with Jake on the hood of his beat-up old Rabbit along the side of the winding road that led to La Push. He told me one kiss would change everything, and my eager lips and thumping heart wanted him too badly to even try to comprehend what he was telling me. Those lips and that heart thought that one kiss would guarantee forever, but as I sit here feeling so lost and so empty, I finally understand what he meant.

More likely than not, I left the best friend I've ever had sitting on top of that beat-up old Rabbit, right there on the side of that winding road, on the night Jake took my hand and kissed my lips and asked me to make him mine. That night was the beginning of our end, and I wish I could go back and tell that girl that kiss would eventually make her heart crack into so many pieces that she wouldn't even be able to feel it. That the racing pulse and tingling skin she felt whenever he was so close to her would just fade away into nothing. That _they_ would fade away into nothing.

I stand up, and shuffle my feet across the carpet and into our bedroom. No, _my_ bedroom. I close the door behind me and I fall back against it, my knees slowly buckling as I slide down to the floor.

With all the strength left in my body, I reach over to my dresser and pull down the receiver to the cordless phone, and through blurry eyes I dial Emmett's number.

My brother listens to me cry until the early hours of the morning, and he wants to drive all the way from Port Angeles to spend the night and make sure I'm okay. I promise him that I'll be all right, and that I'll call him if I need anything. Before we hang up, Emmett offers me the one bit of peace that only he can. He tells me that I did the right thing.

Later, as I lie awake in bed after hours of restlessness, I watch the ceiling fan turn in endless circles as my tired, overactive mind turns in equally endless circles. I realize that I'm having a hard time sleeping because there's no Tranquil Moments Sound Machine pumping out the sounds of spring rain. There's no warm body beside me. There's no Jake.

The silence is so loud it nearly deafens me.

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**This story was written for a prompt given to me by the lovely and patient bemily.  
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	2. Retrograde Motion

**Chapter Two**

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_**Retrograde Motion**__: The phenomenon where a celestial body appears to slow down, stop, then move in the opposite direction. _

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"You should call him, Bella. It's the least you can do after six years together," Mom says, and I can hear the tinkling of her spoon against her mug as she stirs her morning coffee.

After letting me roam around for much too long in a post-breakup zombie-like state, my mother is determined to yank me back into the world of the living, kicking and screaming. Mom has a knack for making me kick and scream, and she knows how to lay on guilt so thick that I almost can't see through it.

I'm sitting in morning gridlock on my way to work, and I grip the steering wheel tightly to release my frustration so I don't yell at her or get upset. I'll never understand why she's chosen rush hour to try to persuade me to reconcile with Jake, but I decide to lump that in with the host of other things she does that make no sense.

"I'm not ready to talk to him yet." My throat feels so tight that I almost can't breathe. I'm not sure when I'll ever be ready to talk to him.

Mom is quiet for a moment, and I can tell this call isn't going the way she wants it to; she's used to me doing what she wants when she wants me to do it. Our fight last weekend threw her for a loop, and I'm throwing her for another one right now. She used to guide me down the path she'd chosen for my life like a puppeteer, but now, when she pulls on my strings, my limbs are heavier. I don't let her have her way like I used to, and it's driving her crazy.

"You broke his heart, Bella. He came over here the other night, and he looked like he hadn't slept or eaten in days."

I picture Jake's sweet, sad face, and I feel sick, like I've just been punched in the gut. I'm not sure which feels worse: the knowledge that I've hurt someone I love, or that my mother is willing to sacrifice my feelings so she can get what she wants.

"Mom-"

"He misses you, Bella," she says.

_Pull_.

"He _loves _you."

_Pull._

"Call him."

_Pull_.

The sadness in her voice makes my fingers itch to hang up with her and call Jake. I've deleted his number from my cell, but I could dial it with my eyes closed. I know I'll never be able to forget those numbers. There are so many things about Jake I'll never be able to forget, like the way he looked when I first told him was in love with him, and then again when I told him I wasn't.

I take a deep breath and I'm quiet for a minute, because if I talk, if I even _try_ to speak, I'll cry. I know she's playing me; she's tugging on my strings again, and I_ refuse_ to let her get away with it this time. I'll tug back with everything I have in me, but she will _not _win this fight. It's not even about Jake anymore. This is about us.

"Once he's away for a while, you'll begin to see things clearly," Mom says with determination.

My mother is under the impression that I'm walking through life in some kind of bubble that prevents me from seeing the way things _really_ are. She thinks her harebrained daughter flits around the world in oblivion, while she sits in her kitchen in the middle of Nowhere, Washington, able to understand _everything_. In her mind, she is the seer of Truth, and it's her mission in life to protect me from myself.

"You'll wind up regretting this." Her voice is firm. "You don't know that now, but you will."

"I don't regret it," I say forcefully. "I regret not doing it sooner." I cringe at the way my voice sounds, how harsh my words are. But I don't take them back.

Mom breathes my name with a sigh. "You can't possibly think that you-"

"You're right, Mom." My voice is all agitation and tightly wound control. "You, who have never spent more than two days at a time with Jake, are right. I, his girlfriend of six years who lived with him, cleaned up after him, slept with him and loved him, I just don't know what in the hell I'm talking about." I already feel tension winding its way up to my forehead, tying itself in a knot so tight that I'll need two cups of coffee and three Advil to get it to loosen.

"You're acting like a child." I hear her drumming her fingers on the tabletop in the background, and I can almost see the way she'd be looking at me if she were sitting right in front of me.

I open my mouth to debate her, but I decide against it. The longer we fight, the more Jake gets dragged into this pissing match between the two of us. Our relationship is over, but I still care for him, and I won't allow him to become the rope Mom and I use in our little game of Tug 'o War.

"I have to go. I'm at the office," I lie. I've still got at least twenty minutes of traffic to get through, but I cannot continue having this conversation.

Mom waits for a moment before she answers me, and then she lets out a long sigh. "Okay."

"Bye," I say, but I don't wait for an answer before I disconnect the call.

Thirty minutes later, I'm standing in the marble lobby of my office building, staring at my reflection in the elevator doors. I turn to the side to examine my profile, and I frown at what I see. My skirt is too short, and my shirt is an unflattering fit for my body. My three-quarter-length sleeves make my arms look short and stubby. I reach up and brush my hair back behind my ear.

The reflection staring back at me looks too matronly and stiff, so I pull out the clip that's holding the back of my hair up, letting it fall around my shoulders in loose, messy waves. I frown, realizing that now I look like I've just rolled out of bed.

See, this, _this_ is what my mother does to me. I was perfectly happy with this outfit before I spoke to her this morning, but now all I'll be able to see is a loose thread here, and an unflattering bunch of fabric there. My hair looked fine when I left the house, but whenever I see myself in a mirror today I'll hear her telling me that I need highlights, or that I should choose a more appropriate style for the shape of my face.

Right as I'm trying to bunch my hair back into the clip, the elevator dings and the doors open, thankfully removing the makeshift mirror out of my sight. I step in and press the button for the tenth floor.

"Hold the elevator!" a voice shouts, and I instantly extend my short and stubby three-quarter-length-sleeved arm to halt the closing doors.

My boss, Garrett, steps in, and he smiles at me. "Thanks, Bella."

"You're welcome."

Garrett is full of breezy confidence; tall and tan and so well put-together. He's one of those guys who seems to have everything, and makes having everything look effortless. He's fun and buttoned-down, and his corner office is full of pictures of his kids, along with shelves full of gadgets, toys, and sports memorabilia.

He's got longish, sandy-colored hair that hangs carelessly over the collar of his light blue shirt, and with his rolled-up sleeves and khaki pants, he looks like he just stepped off of the cover of a J. Crew catalog. I have the sneaking suspicion that he's the kind of guy I'd normally dismiss if it weren't for the fact that he's just so damned nice. He makes me wonder how many other men I may have blown off for purely superficial reasons.

I watch him as he pulls his BlackBerry out of his pocket, and he smiles when he sees whatever it is that pops up on the screen. He tears his eyes away from his phone after a few seconds, and he slips it into his pocket before he looks at me. He really _looks _at me. I've only worked for him for a few weeks, but I already know that he's the kind of guy who notices everything, even the things you don't think anyone else can see.

"Are you doing okay?" he asks, leaning against the deep mahogany wood that lines the walls of the elevator.

My stomach gets that flighty feeling as we begin to go up, and I answer a quiet, "Yes." I attempt to smile, but I fail miserably.

He studies my face for a moment as he processes my answer. I know that's what he's doing, because he's looking at me like he's pouring over a spreadsheet or a PowerPoint presentation. He analyzes everything; he doesn't accept anything at face value.

"It isn't work, is it? If you're not happy, or if you're struggling-"

"No, no, that's not it." I haven't realized until now that my unhappiness has been so obvious during work hours. If anything, I look forward to the eight-hour respite from my personal life every day. "I like working for you."

Garrett smiles, and sunlight streaks across his face as the elevator doors open onto our floor. "Good," he says, smiling as he extends his arm to let me step out first. "If you're having problems, you know my door is always open."

I nod, and smile back. "I know that. Thank you."

Garrett is so different from James that I realize how lucky I am to be working for him, regardless of how I feel about the actual work I'm doing. I decide that I'm going to be careful to check myself from now on; I don't want him thinking that he's got some ungrateful, sullen teenager in his employ. Most of all, I don't want my personal problems to bleed into my professional life, because if I were let go because of that, nothing would give my mother more satisfaction.

I'd rather die than let her have that satisfaction.

Garrett holds the office door open for me, and he follows me in. I look to my left, and Mike is standing at Jessica's cubicle, his usual location at this time of the morning. He's got his elbows resting on the shelf that covers the front of her low-walled cube, and she's looking up at him with a huge smile on her face. Jessica's smile makes me smile.

They both stiffen as Garrett walks by, but once he's turned the corner, they relax toward each other again. If Jessica were alone, I would go say hello. But I decide not to interrupt her and Mike, so I make a beeline for my desk.

I drop my bag on the floor and turn my desk lamp on, then sit down and power on my computer. While I wait for it to boot up, I bend over and pull a few picture frames out of my bag, then place them on the table behind me where a sad little plant and a crystal paperweight sit. I arrange them all until they're just so, and I smile when I look at them. In the mix are a few family pictures, a couple of me and Em through the years, and several of me and Alice, with a few other friends scattered here and there. It was a struggle to find so many that didn't include Jake's smiling face, but somehow I managed to.

I'm startled when someone clears their throat behind me, and when I turn around, Edward Cullen is staring down at me like he's just caught me shoplifting or committing some other kind of misdemeanor. His piercing green eyes stare coldly at my own, but I don't move a muscle. He wants me to shrink from him, but I refuse. Instead, I lift my shoulders and straighten my back, rising to whatever challenge he's about to throw at me.

"When you're finished decorating like this is your second home, alphabetize these by last name, and make me three copies," he says, before throwing a file folder onto my desk.

There is no please, and no thank you. He just barks orders at me like a commander, and when I don't respond, he turns and stalks across the floor toward his desk.

I mutter a soft, sarcastic 'please' under my breath, and when he pauses, I wonder if he's heard me. He doesn't turn around, and when he sits down at his desk, I see him look over once before staring at his computer screen like it holds the secret of life.

I spread his papers out in front of me, and Jessica walks over as I begin to sort them.

Jessica is cute in a girl-next-door way. She's friendly and perky, with a petite frame and infectious smile. Today she's got her hair up in a ponytail that swishes from side to side as she walks. If her skirt were shorter and pleated and if she had a varsity sweater on, she could pass for a cheerleader.

"Hey," she says as she sits down in the chair next to my desk, and then peers over at the files I'm working on. Jessica is more than a little bit nosy, but she's friendly and I can't help but like her.

"Hey. What's up?"

"Not much." Her already bright smile grows brighter. "_Mike_ and I are going downstairs to get some coffee in a few minutes. Want anything?"

She glances over in Mike's direction as she says this, and the way she looks back at me, I can tell that she's not so much asking me if I'd like some coffee as much as she's telling me that Mike is off limits. She does this occasionally, and I suspect it's because she doesn't know me well enough to stake her claim to him outright. She's friendly about it though, so I find it amusing.

"No, I'm fine, thanks," I say, quickly offering her a small smile before returning my attention to my work.

Jessica reaches over and picks up a picture of Emmett. "He's cute," she says, turning the frame in my direction so I can see who she's talking about.

"Thank you," I reply, as if Emmett's looks have anything to do with me. "That's my brother."

Her face falls slightly as she puts the picture back where it belongs. "Did you have a good weekend?"

"It was okay." I don't tell her that I spent most of it in bed, eating my way through the entire Ben & Jerry's product line. "I didn't do much. You?"

"I just saw a movie and...hung out," she says, turning to look over in Mike's direction again. She stops herself halfway and blushes, and I want to tease her about it, but I stop myself.

Jessica is finally starting to open up to me, now that the 'new kid' shine is wearing off. I don't want to step out of line or do anything to mess that up, because it's nice to have someone to talk to who doesn't put her hand on my arm and give me her sympathetic face when she asks me how I'm doing. She doesn't try to get me to go out to get my mind off of things, and she doesn't tiptoe around my feelings. She's a breath of fresh air, and she's completely unaware of it.

"Was it good?" I ask, tapping the edges of the papers I've already alphabetized into a neat stack before putting them aside. The last time I went to a movie, I was with Jake on our-

"Well," she says, leaning in and resting her arms on the edge of my desk, "it's the one that just came out about the-"

"I need those before the end of the century, Bella," Edward says from across the room, interrupting Jessica's story. If I think his voice is full of annoyance, it doesn't hold a candle to the expression on his face. He's all furrowed brow and narrowed eyes, lips pressed together in a thin, irritated line.

Jessica rolls her eyes, and I hold one finger up in a silent request for her to wait, but I don't acknowledge Edward at all. She sits quietly as I finish alphabetizing his files. Once I have them in order, I stand up and walk to the copy room with Jessica in tow. As I wait for the copier to warm up, we chat.

"I don't know what Edward's problem is," Jessica says, looking the angriest I've ever seen her.

She leans against the door frame and ducks her head out into the hallway to make sure no one is coming before she continues. Her arms are folded defensively across her chest, and she's tapping the toe of her shoe on the cheap linoleum floor.

"He has _such_ an attitude. He wasn't always this bad, but lately...God. Garrett loves him though, thinks the sun rises and sets in his cubicle."

"Is he like that with everyone?" I'm glad to finally be able to commiserate with someone. I'm a bit taken aback by Jessica's revelation that his attitude hasn't always been present, because I can't imagine Edward being any other way.

"Pretty much. He's just your typical corporate-ladder-climbing asshole," she says, and I grin, because _that_ sounds like the Edward I know. "Handsome, thinks he's too good for everyone here."

This is the most unguarded I've ever seen Jessica, and I find her outburst endearing, even if we're only bonding over the biggest jerk in the office. She's so fervent about it, part of me wonders if she wanted him to be her Mike before Mike came along.

"You know he yelled at Shelly once." I almost do a double take.

"Office Manager Shelly?" I ask. She's one of the sweetest people I've ever met, and she's about a hundred years old. I can't imagine anyone ever yelling at her; she smells like cookies and keeps candy and fresh flowers on her desk every day.

"Yeah," Jessica says, nodding her head emphatically. "Can you believe it? Mike thought he was going to have to trigger her Life Alert or something until she started yelling back."

"She yelled back?"

"Oh, definitely," Jessica says, laughing. "She's tough; not someone you want to mess with."

"What'd he get so upset about?" Edward is a grump, but I'd never peg him for someone who is flat-out mean-spirited.

"He's a control freak. She ordered the wrong kind of notebook dividers that he needed for a presentation, and he completely lost it."

"He sounds like a winner," I say sarcastically as I load the stack of papers into the copier's feeder tray.

"Yeah," she replies over the loud churning of the machine. "I bet he's one of those guys who keeps the baseballs that kids accidentally hit into his yard. He probably hands out toothpaste on Halloween, and wakes up the next morning to a yard full of toilet paper." She says the last sentence with a strange sort of giggle, and the mental image I have of Edward dropping trial-sized boxes of Crest into little plastic pumpkins makes me laugh, really _laugh_, for the first time in what feels like forever.

"I better get these to him before he has a coronary," I say, pulling the warm paper off of the copier.

"You're a quick learner. I'll see you later?"

"Definitely," I reply as I follow her out.

Edward doesn't look up at me as I approach him, and I want to slam the folder on his desk like he did earlier, but good sense prevails. He manages to shoot me a quick, disinterested glance when I place the file that contains his copies right next to his monitor. He says nothing, not even a thank you, and I walk back to my desk. All I can hear is him furiously typing on his keyboard, even from ten feet away.

The typing stops almost immediately as his phone rings, and he stands up and lifts the receiver to his ear, all in one quick, fluid motion. He speaks quietly and leans against the wall right next to the window beside his desk, and as I watch him, I suddenly realize that I've never really_ looked _at Edward before.

He's very tall, but he never stands up straight, and even though he's lean, his shoulders are broad and athletic. His skin is pale, but not sickly at all. It's smooth like alabaster over high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His eyes are a vibrant green, but they're always tired, weighted down by light purple crescents underneath them, and his lips are full when they're not pressed together into a thin, concentrated line. I'd be willing to bet that he has a killer smile, if he could ever actually manage one.

His lips move quickly as he speaks, and his features are soft. His eyebrows knit together with what looks like worry, and the sunlight shines through the window, accentuating the redness in his normally dark hair. For a moment, that bright sun melts all the agitation and frustration off of his face, and he doesn't even look like himself; he looks friendly, like someone I'd like to know, and laugh with.

But that look only lasts for a moment.

He turns suddenly as he disconnects his call, and his eyes meet mine. I quickly focus my attention on my keyboard, but it's too late; I know he saw me watching him, and I know he wasn't happy about it. My cheeks flame, so I open up an email I need to reply to, in hopes of diverting my attention. I bury myself in work, not daring to look up again.

When lunchtime rolls around, I meet Alice in the lobby. She works down the street, and she's been trying to engage me ever since the breakup. In typical Alice fashion, she cornered me into a situation she knew I couldn't say no to. I have to eat, and since she's within walking distance, she's offered to bring me lunch.

When I see her, she's nearly bouncing out of her shoes at the sight of me. Alice is roughly six inches shorter than I am, and it's tough to contain her personality into such a small frame. She looks well put-together like she usually does, wearing a neatly pressed white summer suit over a hot pink blouse that makes her look vibrant. Her hair is in that casual, just-out-of-bed disarray that so many people try to achieve, but it perfectly fits her playful, carefree way.

"Hi!" Alice says, closing the distance between us in three short, excited steps. She's small, but her grasp nearly crushes me, and I laugh into her hair as I wrap my arms around her.

"If only everyone were so excited to see me." I link my arm with hers as we walk out toward the courtyard.

"I'm sure tons of people are excited to see you," she replies, swinging a brown paper bag from her right hand. "You just never call them back, so you wouldn't know." She smiles playfully as she says this, so I know she's teasing.

Alice is the kind of person who wants everyone she loves to be happy, and if they aren't, she won't rest until she figures out what she needs to do to_ make_ them that way. I envy her; she met Jasper when she was young, and there was never a doubt in her mind that they belonged together. She decided her career path before she entered high school, and she's followed that through precisely. Alice is so _sure_ about _everything_. Sometimes I wonder if she ever has those nights where she lies awake, full of worry and self doubt. If she does, she hides it extremely well.

It's a warm, sunny day, so we sit on a long, winding concrete wall bordering the flower beds that line the front of my office building. We've only had a few short phone conversations since the breakup, and Alice knows I've been avoiding her.

"So," she begins, reaching into her bag and pulling out a sandwich. She hands it to me, and then reaches in and pulls out another. "How's everything going?"

I unwrap the paper and take a bite of my sandwich, hoping to stall. "This is really good," I say after I swallow, avoiding her question. "Did you make it?"

Alice smiles wryly at me, because she realizes what I'm doing. "What do you think?"

I nod. I should've known the answer to that question, because Alice is a horrible cook.

"Bella," she says, more seriously this time. I can tell she's not going to let me avoid her question anymore. "I'm worried."

"I'm okay."

She knows I'm lying. "Liar."

"I'm as okay as I think I can be at this point," I explain, and Alice looks curious. "I miss him, but I don't, and none of this is the way it should be."

"How do you _think _things should be?" Her face screws up like she's genuinely confused.

"I miss the _thought_ of him. I miss the companionship...when I had it. I miss the friend he used to be to me, but he hasn't really been my _friend_ in so long. I feel like I might be idealizing the way things were back then because I'm lonely. The day-to-day Jake I know and had been living with, well..." I press my lips together so I don't say what I want to say. I shouldn't even be thinking it.

Alice moves closer, and puts her sandwich down on the napkin next to her. She reaches over and puts her hand on top of mine and squeezes it gently. I can tell that it'll be okay if I don't finish that sentence, but I feel like the words are holding me back from moving forward. I don't know if it's the right thing to feel or say, but I do it anyway, even though I can't look her in the eye.

"I don't miss _him_," I say, and it seems like every noise around us has stopped so that my words are magnified. "I mean, I..."

Alice is quiet, but her hand stays right where it is.

"I should miss _him_ though, right?" My voice is a higher pitch than usual. "I mean, we were together for six years, and I loved him, so I should miss him, shouldn't I? He's not in my life, he's not in my bed, he's not in my house, and I just...I feel relieved. Unburdened. I'm confused; I know this isn't making sense. It doesn't even make sense in my head. I keep waffling-"

"Sweetie," Alice says quietly, but no other words follow.

"Every time I feel those things, I cheapen what we had," I admit. I put my sandwich back in the baggie. I'm not going to eat it.

"No," Alice says. "You would've cheapened what you had by trying to hold onto it after it was long gone."

"It's been gone for a while now," I explain, hoping she'll understand. "The night before he left was the first time we'd been together in months, Alice. _Months. _I think I hung onto him because I wanted to keep my friend, but by that point, the friend Jake and the boyfriend Jake were all mixed up into one. Now I've lost both of them."

"Maybe not." I know she's just trying to make me feel better.

"Maybe not," I reply quietly, looking down at a small weed that's poking up between the stones beneath my feet. "Why didn't I know when it started to go? It's like...we were happy, and then I looked up one day, and we weren't. What happened to the in-between? All the times I should've felt it slip, when I could've stopped it? I _should've_ felt it slip."

"Jake was your first love, your first serious _everything_. You didn't know what to look for. Now you do. Next time, you will."

I laugh, but it's short and bitter. "Next time?"

"Of course there's a next time," she says, reaching up to brush my hair out of my face. Alice can be so motherly sometimes; so tender, and such a good friend. "Don't you want one?"

"I want," I begin, looking down at my shoes, "I want to _feel_, you know? I haven't felt in so long. Everything is just...numb, and I'm tired of numb. I want _feeling_."

"You'll have it," she says, and I wish more than anything that I could share the hope that she has in her eyes. "You _will_."

"When?" She can't possibly know, but having someone reassure me will comfort me, and Alice is good at comforting. I need comfort and reassurance.

She sighs. "Well...when you find the person you think is worth the risk of being numb again," she says, and when I look into her eyes, she's smiling. "You'll find that person."

I smile back at her, even though my eyes are watery. The fact is that it's entirely possible that I won't ever find that person. But as long as I have Alices and Jaspers and Emmetts in my life, I know that I'll be more than okay.

"I just don't want you to turn into one of those old, bitter harpies who refers to her forty cats as her children."

I stand up and brush off the back of my skirt, then reach down and grab her hand to pull her up.

I collect our trash and throw it in the bag. "Forty cats?"

"For starters. I'm sure there will be a figurine collection in there somewhere, too."

"I'm not a collector. Besides, you know I'd be one of those awesome single old ladies. I'd live out of a suitcase and take trips to China."

"Better you than me. I'd need at least five."

"Trips to China?"

"No," Alice replies seriously. "Suitcases."

She bumps her hip into mine, and smiles at me. I throw my head back and laugh, feeling the sun on my face and the wind in my hair. It feels so good to be light again, like I could drift away instead of being weighted to the earth. Jake weighed me down, and alone, I float. I could go anywhere, if I could just manage to snip the few cords that still tie us together. They're hanging on to me, or maybe I'm hanging on to them, even though the rest have been broken for months, maybe even years.

Alice and I walk together into the lobby, and she keeps looking over at me, but she doesn't say anything. I can tell by the way she's acting that she's not quite done with me yet, and my stomach sinks at that realization.

"You wanna come over for dinner tonight? Jasper's grilling, and he's making your favorite."

This is exactly what I thought was coming, and she knows just how to work me, because I've never been able to resist Jasper's cooking. The invitation is typical Alice, all motherly and sweet. She wants everything to be right again, because it just eats her up inside when it's not.

"Al, I..." I want to let her down easy. I haven't spent time with Jasper and Alice without Jake in years, and I don't know if I'm ready for it. They're so sickeningly sweet and in love that I'm afraid it'll be too hard for me to be around them just yet. "Can I take a raincheck?"

Alice sighs, because I suspect she knew that was going to be my answer, but I know that she understands. "All right, but I'm going to ask again, and-"

A loud cough echoes through the lobby, and I hear my name. I turn to see who's calling me, and my eyes land on Edward about ten feet away, standing impatiently next to the elevator.

I'm startled, and my eyes widen. What does _he_ want?

Edward looks down at his watch, then back over at me, and his expression is accusatory. "We only get thirty minutes for lunch," he says, tapping his wrist.

I glance at my watch and see that I'm five minutes late. I left for lunch before he did, and I'm returning at the same time. From the way he looks, part of me thinks this must've rocked Edward's world off of its axis, but the bigger part of me, the part that wants to stay employed, is afraid he's going to tell Garrett.

Alice puts her hand on her hips, and for a second I think she's going to get all indignant, but I mutter a quiet '_don't_' under my breath, and she stands down.

"I better go," I say, as I wrap my arms around her neck. I squeeze her tightly, and when she hugs me back my eyes start to water again. "Thanks for lunch. I love you."

"I love you too." She shoots Edward a dirty look before she walks out the door. I turn and make my way toward the elevators, keeping as much of a distance from him as I can.

As we stand and wait, I notice Edward looking at me, but I stare straight ahead, right at that reflection of myself that I hated so much earlier. It doesn't really look all that great to me now, but it's better than looking at Edward. I sniffle, and swipe my finger under my eyes to make sure the little bit of mascara I'm wearing doesn't run.

When the doors open, he lets me walk in first, and I gravitate to the left side of the elevator as he gravitates to the right. My eyes focus on the numbers, watching as the floors go by too slowly. The air around us is so quiet that I can hear every sound I make, and every sound _he_ makes, too.

"Is everything okay?" I look at him strangely, unsure that I really heard what I thought I did.

"What?" I sound rude, but I don't care. He's been rude to me more times than I can count, and he deserves this one.

"Are you okay?" His green eyes are soft, but I've only ever seen him either completely agitated, or getting ready to be completely agitated. This look is foreign to me, and I'm not quite sure what to do with it. "You've been crying-"

"I'm fine," I say, right before the elevator opens onto our floor, and I dart out before Edward can badger me any more.

I _am_ fine.

I forget about the hole in my chest as Edward follows me through the office doors, and I push Jake's easy smile out of my mind as I sit at my desk and finish my work for the day. I don't think about my empty apartment as I sit in rush hour traffic, and when I get home I check my mail like I always do. I flip through envelope after envelope addressed to Isabella Swan, and there isn't a single Jacob Black in the bunch. Just like that, another tie has been cut.

And I'm fine. I'm fine, fine, _fine_.

Until I'm not.

This usually happens at the same time every day, when I open the front door to absolute silence.

The first thing I do is turn on the Mariners game, just to feel like things are still kind of the same, even though I can't really stand baseball, and hated when Jake would spend hours watching it. I make a normal-sized dinner when I should be halving the ingredients, and I stare blankly at the television while I eat food that I don't taste.

Once I've cleaned up my mess and washed every dish like I always have because Jake could never be bothered, I walk into my bedroom, sit on the edge of my empty bed, and look down at the carpet in the silence. It occurs to me that the more I follow this routine, the more I try to make things 'normal,' the more alone I will feel.

If I always come home and pretend like Jake's still here, then what was the point of him leaving? I can't complain about being numb if I keep myself locked in safe places where no one can ever touch me or hurt me again, and if I count on the Mariners to keep me company every night, then I will be alone forever. Things will never change if I continue to try to keep them the same, and I can't grow if I keep myself sheltered in this dark little box of an apartment.

I'm antsy and impatient, so I go out into the living room that's completely void of the life it used to have. Last weekend, I took everything down off of the walls and shelves; everything that we picked out together to make this apartment _our_ home. Blank walls and emptiness stare back at me now, and I feel like I'm looking at my reflection.

I live within emptiness, and emptiness lives in me. And I'm ashamed of myself, because I let this happen. I ripped everything down and sat idly by, waiting for someone to come along and bring me some color, some life. But no one else can do that for me; it's something that I have to do for myself.

So, with a determination that I haven't felt in weeks, I pick up the phone to call Alice, and as I dial her number, I snip away one more tie that binds me to Jake.

"Hey," I say, barely letting a 'hello' pass her lips before I start talking. "Are you guys busy next Tuesday?"

"No," she replies, her voice smiling and light. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Well, I was thinking we could go to a movie, then dinner, or..."

As Alice excitedly rattles off ideas, I smile. Then I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and let a little bit of life wash over me.


	3. Dark Matter

**Chapter Three**

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_**Dark Matter**__: A term used to describe matter in the universe that cannot be seen, but can be detected by its gravitational effects on other bodies._

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I've been one-half of a whole for six years.

I know that doesn't seem like a very long time, but I'm twenty-four, and looking back, it feels like a lifetime. Jake was front and center at my high school graduation, only a few months before I turned eighteen, and he helped me pack the back of my truck with boxes before we drove off to U-Dub together. We sat side-by-side in the Student Union as we filled out our first credit card applications. We argued about politics as we waited in line to cast our first ballots, and we clinked our shot glasses in a toast the night I got my first legal taste of alcohol (he held my hair back the next morning, too).

Jake's lips were the first ones that ever melted against mine, that learned every inch of my skin and made me feel like I was more than just an ordinary girl from some small town in Washington. I covered his neck with short breaths, soft sighs, and loving kisses the first time his body taught mine what it felt like to be a woman. His arms were the first ones I fell asleep in, and his heart was the first one I ever trusted with my own.

Six years of firsts. A _quarter_ of my life.

Now it's just me.

No one to my left or my right, no one else to consider when I make plans, and no one to catch me when I fall. It's just me, alone, left to discover a whole new world of firsts on my own.

Sometimes, the firsts are exciting. Like when I made fried chicken for dinner two nights ago; something I'd avoided for years, since Jake hated the smell of it. So what if I made so much that I've had to eat it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day since? Each crispy bite is like a tiny taste of freedom. Sweet, batter-encrusted freedom.

I've done my first bit of redecorating, too. I bought a chair to replace the one that Jake took with him when he left; an overstuffed light-colored chaise that won't get stained by motor oil or greasy hands. A pretty lavender comforter covers my bed now, over soft, high thread count sheets that feel luxurious against my skin and lull me to sleep when my mind starts drifting to sad places.

Then, there are times when the firsts aren't so great. Like this morning, when I wrote my first rent check on paper that has my lonely name at the top, drawn from an account that only has my money in it. Or when I took a left out of the parking garage at work yesterday, and a deep, unsettling thud came from the front of my car.

I could've called Jake to take a look at it. I could've dialed his number and heard his voice, then waited for the rumbling of his truck to vibrate through the air as he pulled up outside of my apartment. I could've stood there and watched as he ducked under the hood, the thin cotton of his T-shirt stretching across his back to reveal that sliver of skin that I know so well. I could've handed him a wrench and then a screwdriver, and let him swoop in and save me.

I could've easily done all those things. But I didn't.

This is what my life is now. Curbing old instincts and changing what Jake's Bella _would_ do into what Bella's Bella _does_ do. And it's hard. Sometimes it's really, _really_ hard.

But I'm doing it. Slowly and surely, I'm _doing_ it.

Coming out of this breakup is like learning to live again; like waking up from a deep, dark sleep and opening my eyes to look at the sun. It hurts, and it takes some adjusting, but I do it. I smile, and it feels like taking a breath, like filling my lungs with warm, fresh air after being underwater for too, too long. And then I laugh, and it's tiny at first, but it gets bigger and bigger the more I do it. With each joke and smile, the laughing grows, and it's a step that moves me in the right direction. I smile and I breathe, and I laugh and I move, away from one thing and towards something else. Out of the darkness and into the sun.

I stumble sometimes, I do. Like last week, when I was going through some boxes in my closet. I came across an old bracelet Jake gave me on my sixteenth birthday, back before we'd messed everything up by falling in love with each other. Then, we were just us, smiling and laughing, friendly and uncomplicated, and that was what I missed. When I held the small, wooden charm he'd clasped on the bracelet that cold late summer day while we sat on the swing on my front porch, I let the tears fall; down my cheeks and onto my palm, covering that tiny carved wolf. I crawled across the floor and into the closet, and I cried until I couldn't cry anymore.

Even then, when I was curled up on the carpet with our past wrapped in my hand, I wouldn't have changed a thing. If we've lost our friendship forever, I can't bring myself to regret any of it. I still care about him, and I want what's best for him. But I have to look out for myself, and what we had wasn't good for either one of us. Pain and all, it's better this way. Now we both have a chance at being happy.

When night fell and my room grew dark, I pushed the sleeves of my blouses aside, and I stood up. I stepped out into my bedroom, and got into the shower to wash everything away. Then, I started over. And every day I make it through without having to start over is a victory.

I smile, and I breathe. I laugh, and I move. And I'm surer of myself now that I know what it feels like to fall.

I breeze in and out of work, not letting anyone or anything get to me or make me stumble. Not Jake, not my mother, and certainly not Edward Cullen. I stand straighter when I walk; I pull my shoulders back, and I have confidence. I'm becoming _me _again, and it feels great. So great, in fact, that even Shelly notices.

"You look good, kid," she says, as I walk past her on my way to get some tea. She sounds proud, and it makes me smile.

"Thank you."

She nods, and moves forward in her chair so she can rest her arms on top of her desk. Shelly is old, but sometimes, when the light hits her a certain way, I can see how beautiful she was as a young girl. Now, she's all wiry gray hair that's pulled up into a bun, black cat-eye glasses connected to a jeweled chain that hangs from her neck, and severe red lipstick that makes her mouth look like a paper cut.

"Broken hearts come and go. But the good times, well, they make everything else look like peanuts."

My eyes widen, and my mouth hangs open for a second before I ask, "How did-"

"I've been around the block a few times, honey. I know how it goes. The lunkhead probably didn't deserve you anyway," she says, lifting a long, shaky finger to her lips as she flips through an office supply catalog.

"No, it's not..." I begin, but I think better of it. It won't do me any good to rehash my personal life with the office manager, who's probably old enough to be my grandmother's grandmother. "Listen," I say, pointing at the door. "I'm going down to the cafe for some tea. Do you want to come? Or I could bring you back some coffee…"

She chuckles, and shakes her head. "Nah, I have a whole pot brewing in the kitchen. You're welcome to have some if you want."

I know she has a pot brewing, because the air in the office is so thick with the smell that I feel like I'm standing right next to Juan Valdez. I tried a cup a couple of weeks ago, and it was so strong that it took five creamers just to get the slightest bit of color. It looked like tar, and tasted like it, too.

"Oh, um..." I stammer uncomfortably, trying to figure out an easy way to tell her I don't want any, without hurting her feelings.

"It's okay. I'm sure Michael has warned you about it. I know he's said _something_."

He told me it tasted like piss, actually, but I figure it's probably best not to let her know that.

"I'm a lightweight," I tell her. "I can't handle the strong stuff."

"Fair enough. More for me."

"Okay, well, I'm just gonna..." I turn to leave, and get two steps away when Shelly calls me back.

"Edward's down there, and he's in a bit of a mood. Just thought I'd warn ya."

I groan. "Maybe I'll wait a few more minutes."

She shakes her head. "You will not. That boy is all bark and no bite. He gives you lip, you give it right back to him. And if he_ still_ gives you lip, send him over to me."

"Thanks," I laugh.

"Good luck," she calls after me, right before the heavy office door clicks shut.

One short elevator ride and seventy-six footsteps full of trepidation later, I'm standing at the end of a long line that nearly stretches out into the hallway.

Unfortunately, I'm standing at the end of this long line behind the aforementioned Edward Cullen.

I know he knows I'm behind him, because he saw me when I was walking up. Yet here he stands, right in front of me, without even bothering to acknowledge my presence by wishing me a good morning or even saying hello. Of course, I could say something, but I'm not at all inclined to be nice to him, and he's busy typing away on his BlackBerry anyway. Given how often I see him with it, I'm fairly sure that phone is his lifeline. I think his heart may stop beating if it's extracted from his palm for more than five minutes.

When we finally make it to the front of the line, he visits his cheery early morning disposition on the cashier.

"What do you mean, you're out?" Edward asks in that haughty tone I've grown to recognize and could probably identify in a room full of strangers, even with my eyes closed. "This is a coffee shop, you can't just be _out _of cups!"

"I didn't say we were out of cups." The cashier plants her hands on her hips as she squares off against him. "I said we were out of _small _cups. You can have a medium or a large."

"I don't _want_ a medium or a large," he says indignantly. "I get a small here every morning."

"Well, unless all that wanting you're doing is going to magically make a stack of cups appear, if you _want_ to drink some coffee today, you're going to have to buy a medium or a large." The cashier's head moves pointedly from side to side as she throws every bit of Edward's attitude right back at him, and I love her so much that I decide I'm going to give her a five-dollar tip.

Edward sighs so loudly that I can hear it over the grating noise of the coffee grinder behind the counter, and he shoves both hands in his pocket and searches for some change that probably isn't there. If I know Edward, and by now I think I do at least a little bit, he's probably only brought enough money with him to pay for the small, because he's a born accountant: all checks and balances, black and white, precise preciseness and exact exactness.

The people behind us are starting to get restless, and I've seen how cranky Edward can be without his hit of morning caffeine. So I take a step forward to stand right next to him and say, "I'll take a medium green tea for myself, and a medium coffee for him."

The cashier looks at me like I've just lifted a ten-ton weight off of her shoulders, while Edward just stares at me, completely dumbfounded. His mouth is hanging open, and the exact change for the small cup of coffee he'll never have sits unpaid in the palm of his outstretched hand.

His speechlessness sends a small thrill of victory coursing through my veins, until he opens his mouth and ruins it all.

"No, just give her the tea," he says, and turns to walk away. He can't even stop being an asshole when someone's trying to help him out.

I grab his elbow before he can leave. "Just take the damn coffee, Edward." He glances down at my hand, where it's wrinkling the sleeve of his shirt, and I immediately let him go. His expression changes for a moment, like he's debating his next course of action, until a look of resignation finally makes its way across his face.

The testy woman behind the counter gives him his cup, and I hand her my money and tell her to go ahead and keep the change. Edward doesn't wait for me to complete the transaction; instead, he turns and hightails it to the condiment bar in the middle of the cafe. I follow closely behind him, and as I take the top off of my cup, I notice how methodical he is about concocting his coffee.

One packet of sugar. Stir. Taste. One container of cream. Stir. Taste. Another packet of sugar. Stir. Taste.

I want to dump a rogue packet of Splenda in there to see if his head explodes.

When he finishes with his odd assembly, he shoves a few packets of sugar in his pockets, then takes his cup and stands awkwardly. His body is turned toward the door, as if he's unsure whether he should stand here and wait for me to finish what I'm doing before he takes off. He probably thinks he has to walk me to the elevator and back to the office now, and I don't feel particularly rushed to release him from his nonexistent obligation.

He watches me throw my trash in the trash can, and he's bouncing up and down as if his shoes are on fire. The second I make a move toward the door, he shoots out ahead of me like a gunshot just signaled the beginning of a marathon, and I'm out of the cafe before he finally slows his pace. I walk leisurely, enjoying the tension he exudes as he seems to use every ounce of control he has not to dart away from me. It must be comical to watch the two of us: me, slow and steady, and Edward, taking three steps ahead just to have to stop and wait for me to catch up.

"You don't have to walk with me." I'm still hoping that Edward might thank me for the coffee, but I'm beginning to realize that's probably a lost cause. He looks back at me out of the corner of his eye before his pace quickens and he leaves me behind. He slows a bit when he gets about fifteen feet away, like maybe he's second guessing himself, but that only lasts a few steps or so. When he turns the corner into the elevator bank a few moments later, he's completely out of my sight.

I turn the very same corner right as the elevator dings and the door opens. I follow Edward inside without a word, and before the door closes again, a pretty young blonde in a bright red dress enters. Edward and I each gravitate toward opposite sides of the elevator, just like we did the last time we were in here together. The young woman stands between us. She looks about my age, maybe a little younger.

She reaches forward to push the button for the sixth floor, and when she stands back, she fidgets as if every nerve in her body is buzzing. The toe of her right shoe is tapping against the floor, and her fingers are drumming against her hips as she impatiently checks her watch. She moves a medium-sized leather portfolio from underneath one arm to the other, looking nervous all the while.

"I like your dress," I say, hoping to relax her. The dress is rather plain, not anything out of the ordinary, but she looks like she could use a compliment and I want to be the one to give it to her.

The woman looks over at me, and her ruby red lips that match her dress turn up into a radiant smile. I notice that her hair is impeccably done and her makeup is flawless.

"Thank you," she says, and her voice cracks a little. She clears her throat before she speaks again. "I have an interview, and I wasn't sure if this was okay." She turns toward me and smooths her free hand over the fabric, from her waist to her thigh. I think she might be asking for my approval and on the off chance that she is, I offer it without hesitation.

"I think it's perfect." I give her the warmest smile I've got.

"Good."

It seems I've put her mind at ease, and I feel an odd sense of accomplishment. I look over at Edward, and I'm surprised to see that he's watching me. It doesn't last long though, because the moment my eyes meet his, he looks down at his cup.

When we finally reach the sixth floor, the woman turns and gives me a tentative smile.

"Good luck!"

"Thanks," she replies, and as she walks out of the elevator, Edward takes a huge step forward, like he's going to follow her.

I look down at the floor and watch as Edward's brown oxford plants down on a long stream of toilet paper stuck to the heel of the blonde's shoe. He pulls his foot back in the elevator as the doors begin to close, leaving the stream of paper on the landing, and my mouth practically hanging open.

He steps back almost immediately, as if he didn't even do anything out of the ordinary. He just rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, then takes a sip of his coffee.

"That was nice of you," I say, and I know I sound shocked, because I_ am_. The elevator is so quiet that I feel like I'm shouting into a cave or something, and I wait for my words to echo.

Edward doesn't reply, he just shrugs his shoulders and looks at the numbers as they rise, probably counting down the seconds until he can sprint out of this elevator. When the doors finally open, he does exactly that, and I shout a quick, "You're welcome for the coffee," in his direction as he scurries away from me.

An hour later, I'm sitting at my desk working on a spreadsheet when Garrett calls my name.

"May I have a word?" he asks, standing in front of his door with his hand on the handle as he holds the other one out toward me. I like the way he phrases his question; as if I have a choice, when clearly my _only_ option is to have a word with him.

I grab a pen and a notepad and follow him into his office, then sink into a comfortable dark brown leather chair directly across from him. My face is hot, because I feel like I've just gotten called into the principal's office. Oh, why does this make me so nervous?

"I'm glad you brought a pen," he says, smiling. "Always prepared. I like that." Even though the compliment is simple, I bask in the praise he's just given me. I don't know why it feels so good to have his approval, but it does. It makes me feel more competent. "I want to talk to you about the retreat we have coming up."

I shift in my seat slightly, sitting up so that I can write. This is the first thing I've heard about a retreat.

"Well, it's not a retreat so much as it is a camp out. My wife says that calling it a retreat makes it sound more interesting, more corporate." Garrett laughs as he lifts some papers off of his desk so he can look at his calendar. "Every year, I take everyone in the office out to Dash Point. I know you all have lives and family commitments and other important things, so I'll only keep you for one night, but I think that it's good to get away from the monotony of work and spend some time together getting to bond with one another. It's nothing too strenuous, just some team-building exercises and all that. It's fun. Attendance is _not_ required, but I do encourage everyone to come. You'll be paid for the two days, and I'll pocket the expenses."

I nod, ticking off little snippets of his speech into bullet points on my notepad. I strategically cover the doodles that decorate the top right corner of the paper, because I don't want him to know that I'm a doodler. It's dumb really, but I feel like those hearts and flowers and things tell him more about me than I'm ready to share.

"Most of it has already been arranged," he says, reaching over to wiggle his computer mouse, "but I just need you to follow up on a few things, and make sure everything is confirmed."

"I can do that. When is it?"

"Three weeks from now. We'll leave on Friday morning, and be back late Saturday afternoon."

I write that down, too. "Doesn't take long to build a team here, does it?" It's one of those stupid things I tend to say every now and then that makes me wish there was some kind of verbal filter attached directly to my mouth.

Garrett laughs. "We all work well together, don't you think?"

Except for Edward, I want to say. But I remember that he's Garrett's golden boy, and manage to keep my mouth shut. "Like a machine that squeaks a bit from time to time," I reply, cringing. I want to smack myself in the face for sounding so utterly ridiculous.

"Just think about this as a little bit of oil." He's grinning at me, probably thinking I'm an idiot. "It'll be fun, and I hope you'll come."

"Of course I will," I reply, nodding. Don't say anything else, Bella. Shut it.

"Good. I'd like you to call the van company and the campground and make sure they still have our reservations." He shuffles some papers around on his desk, and finds a yellow Post-It, then presses it against his calendar and scratches off some writing as he talks to me. "I'll send you the contact information."

"Okay. Anyone else for me to contact?"

"I'm sure there is, but I'll let you know when I think of it." Garrett is not so big on organization; that's something I'm trying to help him out with. He probably has two other Post-Its with more information written on them somewhere he's yet to find. "We'll need to arrange to bring some food, but we can figure out the logistics of that later."

"All right," I say, making some kind of awkward attempt to stand up. It's one of those situations where I'm not sure whether he's finished with me or not, even though it seems like the conversation is over.

Garrett leans over and picks up the phone receiver, cradling it against his shoulder. "Oh, Bella. I have this conference call, and it's probably going to run long." He shifts in his chair and pulls out his wallet, then hands me a credit card. "I've asked Mike to lead the staff meeting; why don't you go ahead and get sandwich orders from everyone and make it a working lunch?"

"Do you want anything?"

He shakes his head and smiles at me as he dials a phone number, and I turn and walk out, shutting the door quietly behind me.

I solicit for lunch orders, and of course, the one person who's reluctant to give his to me is the one person I'd least like to badger. But it's close to eleven and if I don't order soon, the food won't get here in time for our meeting.

"Do you know what you want?" I ask Edward impatiently as I stand on the other side of his desk. He's been looking at the menu for at least five minutes, pouring over it like it's ancient text. For someone whose diet seems to consist mainly of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and coffee, he's having a hard time figuring out what he wants to eat to change the monotony.

"This isn't your last meal."

He rolls his eyes as he jots something down, then hands me a piece of paper with what has to be the longest, most specified sandwich order known to man. Two hundred years earlier, this thing would've been on a piece of parchment so long it would stretch down the hallway.

"Do you order like this everywhere you go?"

"Not that it's any of your business," he replies, "but no. Why?"

"Well, I worked at a restaurant my freshman year in college, and a complicated order like this is just begging to be tampered with." I don't know why I'm goading him. Maybe it's residual anger because he never thanked me for his coffee, or maybe I just want to take the first shot for once. I want to mess with his head like he's messed with mine.

He sighs, and turns to face me. "What do you mean?"

I lean over his desk to get real close to him, and in my most dramatic storytelling voice I say, "One of the waitresses I worked with used to spi-"

I'm interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone. He doesn't even think twice about me, he answers the call and pleasantly says, "Hi," before glaring at me, giving me my cue to leave.

I retreat back to my desk to call in our order, and as I read off the list of sandwiches that my coworkers want to eat, I watch Edward as he stands looking out the window again, his phone pressed to his ear. He gets a call right around the same time every day, and his demeanor changes so dramatically that I'm beginning to wonder who it is on the other line.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm sitting at a long, mahogany table in the middle of our biggest conference room, with the rest of my coworkers sitting in nearly perfect intervals around it. Mike's standing at the head of the table, looking like he's holding court. It's obvious that he relishes the free rein Garrett's given him to lead the meeting, and his enthusiasm makes me smile. I do wonder, however, why he gave the honor to Mike, and not Edward.

It seems like Edward's wondering the same thing, given the way he's sitting here all sullen, scribbling in his notebook and punching the numbers on his calculator furiously, not even paying attention.

"Guys, it's so important that we enter our billable hours on time every Thursday. If we don't get them in, not only does it hold up_ our_ pay, but it holds up the _firm_ getting paid as well." Mike turns a green fountain pen around and around in his hands as he talks. "We're accountants, let's act like we care about the money, okay? I don't think Garrett wants to have to dock anyone for negligence." Mike eyes Tyler Crowley, who is notoriously lax in adhering to deadlines, and everyone else in the room follows suit.

Tyler looks embarrassed at first, then the right side of his mouth lifts up into a guilty grin. "Okay, okay," he says. "You don't all have to be so obvious about it. I know I'm forgetful."

I haven't had much interaction with Tyler, but he seems like a nice enough guy, and I want to help him out. "Maybe I could send out a reminder email to you, and-"

"The fact is that Garrett has given us all a method of timekeeping that's easy to use, and we should be using it," Edward says, like I hadn't even been talking. "If you can't remember to enter your time in, you probably need to reevaluate your priorities."

Mike is taken aback for a moment, and everyone's eyes are on Edward, and then they move to me. My face is so hot, and I'm embarrassed, even though I didn't do anything to be embarrassed about. I look down at my sandwich, as if it's going to drain some of the tension from the air. If Edward were Emmett, my elbow would be introducing itself to his ribcage right about now.

"Reminder emails would be helpful Bella, thank you." Mike doesn't even acknowledge Edward or his outburst.

Jessica looks at me and rolls her eyes, mouthing something that I don't quite catch.

"I know you're all eager to finish eating," Mike says as he sits down and scoots his chair in. "Before we end, Garrett just wanted me to remind everyone about the retreat coming up on the twenty-sixth of June."

Everyone groans, and the sound makes me wonder what exactly is so bad about camping.

"What exactly do you guys do at these retreats?" I ask, before I take a bite of my sandwich. Even though Garrett's already given me the details, I feel like I'll get more information from these people.

"Trust falls, team exercises, bonding, that kind of shit," Mike says before shoving half of his sandwich in his mouth.

"Michael!" Shelly says, looking offended. "Watch your mouth."

"Stuff," Mike replies with his mouth full. "That kind of _stuff_." He glances over at Shelly, and gives her a sheepish smile.

I reach over to get some salad from the huge bowl in the middle of the table, and just when I grab the tongs, something pulls on me. I look back to my left, and Edward is holding the hem of my shirt up as it dangles precariously over my plate full of salad dressing. If he lets go, I have no doubt that with the oil and everything that's on there, the shirt will probably be ruined.

"Thank you," I say as I sit down. Edward says nothing; he just gives me a faint smile and returns to his calculator and the jumble of numbers on his legal-sized yellow notepad.

As I watch him write, I'm unsettled. Edward is a haughty jerk one minute, a polite do-gooder the next, and I can't help but wonder what his deal is. He should turn me off, but I can't figure him out, and my mother would be the first to attest that I've never been one to back away from a challenge. He fascinates me; his attitude and the small glimpses I get of his kindness. I'm like a kid with a jigsaw puzzle; I know I won't rest until I figure out how all of his pieces fit together.

"Are you going to come to the retreat, Bella?" Jessica asks.

"Yes," I reply, and I notice in my peripheral vision that Edward has stopped writing.

"It's pretty fun," Mike says, and the look on my coworkers' faces tells me that Mike's idea of fun might be a little different from theirs. "Last year, Edward fell off of a rock when he thought a wolf ran through our campsite." Mike stifles a laugh by shoving some potato chips in his mouth. "He squealed like a five-year-old girl."

I smile, and a few other people snicker. Even though I'm sure it didn't happen the way Mike is insinuating, the mental image of Edward being scared of a wolf is kind of amusing.

"If I remember correctly," Edward replies, not even missing a beat, "you got poison ivy all over your ass after you took a dump in a patch of it."

Everyone's eyes slowly shift over to Mike, who's just staring at Edward. The only noise in the room is the piece of chicken salad that falls on Mike's plate from the sandwich he's holding about a foot away from his mouth. Edward cracks the tiniest bit of a smile and Shelly starts laughing, a loud guffaw that echoes through the whole room.

"That's what you get for telling people my coffee tastes like urine," Shelly says, elbowing Mike's arm. She's smiling at him, teasing him, but he's too embarrassed to respond.

Jessica looks over at her guy, and her cheeks are flaming red. Mike doesn't look up, doesn't even move a muscle, and I feel so bad for him that I have to look away.

I turn and look at Edward. He grins at me, and even though it's only for a moment, his eyes dance, and his whole face just glows. It's the first time I realize just how handsome he is, and I was right; he really _does_ have a wonderful smile.

My gaze moves over to the plate of food sitting in front of him, where he's deconstructed his sandwich and has all the different components sitting separately, side by side. Lettuce, turkey, pickles, and onions around the edges, and two slices of fresh red tomato right in the middle. He's got the bread they were on all sealed up in a plastic baggie. I don't even know where that thing came from, since all of our food was delivered in aluminum foil.

He was too cheap to pay for a thirty-cent up size in his coffee earlier, so I'm not exactly surprised that he wants to stretch someone else's dime for all it's worth, but I am curious why he took the whole thing apart. I lean forward and reach for a napkin to nonchalantly check and see if he's hoarding plastic ware or wet wipes, or something weird like that. There's nothing but Edward's little OCD plateful of dissected sandwich, so I sit back in my chair, more curious about him than ever.

Does he not like to eat in front of people? Does he get grossed out if his food touches? I wish I'd paid more attention to him earlier, because he's starting to remind me of Charlotte, the redheaded nerd I used to sit next to during lunch in high school. She'd always cut her paper bag in half, then spread it out, and set a piece of her meal on each corner. She'd eat her food going clockwise, always saving her dessert for last, which sat right in the middle.

It was one of the weirdest things I'd ever seen someone do with their food. Until today.

Edward notices me staring, and his fingers touch the edge of his plate, moving it over about a foot, as if that will somehow make it invisible.

He grinned at me earlier, so I tease him.

"Storing up for the winter?" I ask, nodding toward that strange plate of leftovers.

My good-natured smile slowly fades as I watch the heat rise to his face, and his eyebrows knit together before he turns away. He slowly wraps a sheet of foil over the plate, carefully crimping it around the edges, before puts the plate on top of his note pad and stands up.

"I have to go," he mutters. He puts a few packets of mayonnaise in his pocket before he turns and walks out.

I tuck my hair behind my ear as I watch him disappear, wondering what exactly it is that I've done wrong.

Later, as the sky burns a bright orange through the windows in Alice and Jasper's dining room, I sit across from them at the table as I eat the last cheesy forkful of burrito that's left on my plate.

They're so in love with each other that it's everywhere in this house. On the walls, where picture after picture of the two of them hang, side by side. On the mantle, where framed copies of their wedding vows sit; forever staring back at them every time they warm themselves by the fire. In the air around them as they look at each other, all googly-eyed and smiling, like they're the only two people in the world.

Jasper's telling me a story about the little girl next door, and I tune in halfway through. This makes me a horrible guest, I know, but I've been too preoccupied with my surroundings to be able to pay full attention.

"Poor thing was shaking, just terrified to go out in the backyard. Her mother carried her over here to introduce us, hoping that she'd calm down a bit. When I opened the front door, Bree-her name is Bree-had her face all tucked up into her mom's neck. She didn't even want to look at me," Jasper says, sneaking a sly sideways glance at Alice.

"Why was she so scared?" Of course, there are a multitude of possibilities. Jasper's big on home improvement, and he's always got a table saw or something loud going on the weekends. Or maybe she saw him walking around outside during that month he had to wear the eye patch, after he took a cleat to the face during one of his baseball games. Alice and I had taken to calling him 'Jasp-arrrrr,' since he looked so much like a pirate. It could be because of Alice and Jasper's infamous Halloween parties, where they both go all out to decorate the garage for the kids to come Trick-or-Treating. Jasper and Jake always loved to think up the scariest costumes…

Jake.

"Alice's sister had the kids over here the other weekend, you know, when it was so nice out, and I was playing with them in the backyard-"

"Terrorizing them, more like," Alice says, reaching over and clasping her hand with his. Jasper keeps talking, but I focus on their fingers, the way they intertwine. It's a never-ending zigzag of fingers and flesh and togetherness that I've forgotten I miss until now. "Poor Bree heard the kids screaming, and Jasper chasing them, she thought they were being tortured or something!"

"So what happened?"

"She and Jasper became fast friends," Alice explains, looking at Jasper adoringly. "She invited him over to a tea party next week. I'm making the finger sandwiches."

Jasper eyes her suspiciously, and Alice quickly corrects herself.

"I'm _buying_ the finger sandwiches." Her face is red, but she's smiling, so big. She's beautiful when she's happy like this.

Jasper laughs and leans over to kiss Alice's cheek, and they look at each other with secrets and love and everything that I don't have. They used to sit like this when we'd team up and play poker here, the third Saturday of every month. She and Jasper on one side of the table, and me and Jake on the other. They'd smile at each other like two sly dogs, and when Jasper would get up to fill the pretzel bowl so Alice could try to cheat, Jake would put his hand on my thigh and lean over to kiss my neck...

It happens so fast I don't even realize what's going on until I feel that horrible tingling shooting down my neck to my fingertips, and my heart is pounding so fast, so _fast_. I rub my sweaty palms across the denim on my thighs, and I keep staring at the empty seat next to me, the one that felt so much more comfortable when Jake was in it. Now it's just empty, and I could move over and sit there if I wanted to. It shouldn't be that easy to just _move_, should it? He should be here, right? He's always been here, and it felt right, and this feels so strange and empty, and-

"Bella?" Alice asks. I look up, and my eyes meet hers. "Did you hear what I said?"

"What?"

Her eyebrows crease, and she frowns. She looks worried, because she knows something's up. Alice shouldn't frown, and Alice shouldn't be worried. So I lie.

"I just got...I was thinking about something Em asked me to do. I forgot, and..."

I smile, and I breathe.

"What did you say?"

"I was just wondering how you were getting along with that guy at your office who has the stick up his ass," she asks, looking over at Jasper.

"Edward?"

"Yeah," she says. "Edward with the stick up his ass."

"He's still, you know...full of wood."

I laugh, and I move.

"You cooked, Jasper. I'll get the dishes," I say. I don't want to talk about Edward, or Jake, or work. I grab my plate and Alice's and walk over to the sink on unsteady legs; then I walk back to the dining room and pick up some more dishes. By the time I have the table clear, I'm sure-footed and relaxed. My heartbeat is normal, and the awful tingling is gone.

I held myself up.

I don't think anyone's ever washed a sink full of dishes with a bigger smile on their face.

When the leftovers are put away and the dishwasher is churning, Jasper brings dessert to the table. He places small plates in front of Alice and me, then he takes the top off of the pie plate that sits in front of us.

"Oh, God." Alice clasps her hand over her mouth before she runs to the bathroom. Jasper follows right behind her, and before the door even shuts, I put two and two together.

While they're gone, I stare at the pattern on the tablecloth and try not to think about the empty space beside me, or the new family that's forming right there down the hall. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room seems so loud, and the longer I sit here, the louder it gets. I've never been so aware of time before.

I'm happy for them, I am. But this happiness comes along with such an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. I grab my water glass and bring it to my lips, then gulp it down, hoping it will fill up that empty spot and leave me with the happiness.

I want to keep the happiness. I grip it. I _cling_ to it, hoping it will help me push the other thing away. I drink and I drink, but the emptiness stays, the stubborn bastard.

When Alice and Jasper finally come out of the bathroom, I stand and rush over to them with outstretched arms. "Congratulations," I say, tightly squeezing them both. The happiness flows through my fingertips and across their shoulders. With every beat of my heart, it pumps out of me and onto them. I feel selfish, because I want them to have it, but I need it, too. I want to keep it, but I give it away.

"When?"

"November twenty-second," Jasper says, beaming. "We're having a turkey."

I laugh, because that is just such a Jasper thing to say. I wait for him to make a joke about basting, because he's twisted like that. I wait and wait. I _need_ the joke. I need to smile and breathe, and laugh and move. I need the push he'll give me, but it doesn't come.

When I let go of them, I stand back and watch how they are together. Jasper is as attentive as ever, and Alice just blooms whenever she's around him; all red cheeks and grins and glowing skin. I've never really envied their relationship...until now. It's a strange kind of envy though; it's not jealousy of what I'm missing now, but anger that I didn't realize that this was what I'd been missing while I was with Jake.

Before Alice returns to the dining room, Jasper throws out the pie in the trash can in the garage. We talk for a little while, but as I sit here and listen to their plans for the baby's room, and the cold, gloppy goo Alice hates getting squirted on her at the doctor's office, I begin to feel so very out of place. I'm the unsure, unsettled child, and they're the adults with the mortgage and the rings and the soon-to-be bundle of joy.

They have roots, and I drift. Just like my mother said. Realizing that she was right makes my stomach sink all the way down to my toes.

When I pull out of Alice and Jasper's driveway, I dial the first saved number on my cell phone, and I attempt a smile when Emmett answers on the second ring.

"Tell me I'm not a bad person."

"You're not a bad person."

"Thanks," I laugh.

"What are you not being a bad person about?" He sounds worried, and I love that about him. It's like he knows what I need to talk about before I even open my mouth.

"I just had dinner at Alice and Jasper's," I say as I slow to a stop at a red light.

"Yeah, that would upset me too. Remember that time Alice made potato salad? Turned me off of the stuff forever."

"Yes." Then the quiet comes, and my turn signal gets louder and louder as the seconds pass. "Alice is going to have a baby," I finally say, and I start to cry, even though I don't know what on earth I'm crying about.

"Bell, don't," Emmett says, soothing me just like he always does.

"I don't even want a baby!" I'm nearly shouting, and definitely laughing. I swipe away at the tears on my cheeks, because these emotions are so ridiculous.

"Well, I guess it's good you're not the pregnant one, then," he teases, but his voice is very gentle, very _Emmett_.

"I don't even want a baby, and I'm jealous. I'll get to be cool Aunt Bella with gum in her purse who plays fun games and never has to spank the kid. I won't have to change shitty diapers and wake up in the middle of the night to warm bottles. I get the best end of this deal. What's my problem? Why am I jealous of something I don't even want?"

Emmett sighs, and he's quiet for a while. He's probably formulating a plan in that beautiful brain of his.

"I don't know why you're jealous, Bell. It's probably the same reason I get jealous whenever I see my neighbor's Corvette. I don't even want a Corvette. What in the hell would I do with it? I'm too tall, and even though it's flashy and nice and stuff, it's not _me_. I'm stuck with my shitty old Jeep, and sometimes, when I look at that 'vette, I think I'd like to have one just to see what it's like for a while. Then Rosie catches me daydreaming, and reminds me that my legs would cramp up and my knees would kill me if I drove that thing, and that I'd look like an asswipe going through a mid-life crisis just sitting in it. But it's kind of cool, and when I see it, I can't help but imagine, you know?"

"Okay..."

"But...I'm saving up for that Expedition I want; it's just my style, and I know I'll love it once I find the perfect one. When the time is right, I'll have it. You're just saving up for your Expedition, Bell. Jake was your Corvette: a great guy, but just not practical for your lifestyle. Alice and Jasper's life is a flashy thing to look at right now, but it's not _you_. When the time is right, you'll find the person who fits."

I smile. Of course Emmett would try to reassure me about my love life by using a car metaphor.

"Besides, you and a baby? Don't you remember what happened to Donatello?"

"Oh, you're gonna bring up the hamster again? That wasn't my fault! Mom told you not to put him in that ball!" And now I'm laughing. Not laughing through tears; just laughing, and it's wonderful. It makes my face light up and my heart feel full. So very, very full. The emptiness is gone; chased away by my brother's kindness, and that stupid hamster who used to roll around Emmett's bedroom in that see-through pink ball.

I was wrong when I said I was alone in this thing. Because I have Jazz and Al. And I have Emmett.

I'm breathing, and I'm moving. I'm back on steady feet. Only the ground beneath me is sturdier now, because Emmett helped me reach up and snip that last cord that tied me to Jake, my Corvette. I can do a little car shopping now; look around to see what fits me. Until I find it, I'll just have to walk. And that's not so bad, really.

I'm free. It feels so scary and wonderful. So peaceful and light.

"I love you Em," I say. I don't think I can ever tell him this enough.

"I love you, too."

For tonight, it's all I need.


	4. Opposition

**Chapter Four**

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_**Opposition: **__The position of a planet when it is exactly opposite the Sun in the sky as seen from Earth. A planet at opposition is at its closest approach to the Earth and is best suitable for observing._

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"You can't pull it like that, Edward, it'll-"

"I got it," he snaps, as he roughly yanks on the innards of the copier. He flips a couple of levers and tries pulling again, but nothing moves. He jostles the machine, and plastic smacks against plastic somewhere inside, but it's stubborn, and won't let Edward have his way.

"You don't have to pull that part out; the paper is jammed behind the other-"

"I've done this before, Bella. I know what I'm doing." His head turns slightly towards me as he speaks, but he doesn't look in my direction. "It's just tricky, and I have to..."

His voice trails off as he ducks his head to the left to find another point of attack. His eyebrows are furrowed, and small beads of sweat are beginning to form along his hairline as he shifts his weight from one leg to another in his position crouched on the floor. I can empathize with him; I did battle with the fax machine a couple of days ago, and did not emerge victorious. If he would just let me help, we could probably slay this beast.

"The display says the jam is behind part number seven. This is number nine," I explain, pointing at the little blue number above the lever that he's fiddling with. "And you're yanking on the toner, not the fuser. It's gonna bust open-"

"It's _not _gonna bust open," he says, jiggling the toner drum so roughly that I can see every tendon in his forearm flexing beneath his skin.

I stand back, because I know from experience that whenever you think a piece of office equipment isn't going to do something, it does it, just to spite you.

And sure enough, no sooner than the words leave his mouth, that Xerox machine spites the hell out of Edward. It spews out a gust of toner, black as soot from a chimney, all over Edward's freshly pressed crisp white shirt.

"Shit," Edward says with a sigh, hanging his head low in defeat. He looks down at the carnage, and in one final burst of anger, he reaches over and slams the plastic front door of the copier against the base. It ricochets off of the broken toner drum, and hits Edward in the chest, causing a little black puff of ink to float through the air.

Edward stands, and moves to brush his shirt with the backs of his ink-stained fingers.

"Don't!" I yell. He startles, and lifts both arms up and away from his body. His hands are wide open and his fingers are splayed out, as if I'm getting ready to frisk him. "Don't touch it. Just...just move over there and don't touch it. I'll be right back."

I jog over to my desk and open the bottom drawer, then pull out the small can of Aqua Net I keep in there specifically for moments like these. I rip a few sheets off of the roll of paper towels that are in there too, then grab the canister vacuum from the janitor's closet. When I return to the copy room, Edward is leaning against the wall with his head down and eyes closed, and he's still got his arms stretched out awkwardly at his sides.

I put the hairspray and paper towels down on the counter next to him, then plug in the vacuum and make quick work of cleaning up the mess on the floor. Once I'm finished with that, I walk over to Edward, and wipe off the vacuum's nozzle with a clean paper towel.

"Do you mind if I untuck this?" I ask, pointing at his shirt.

He shakes his head, and when I look up at him, all the frustration has left his face. Eyes that were so irritated only a few minutes ago watch me, open wide, as if I'm performing some kind of miracle.

I pull firmly on the hem of his shirt, and let the nozzle hover over the black splotches of powder, watching as they gradually disappear. When I've gotten all that I can, I turn the vacuum off and pick up the Aqua Net.

I give the fabric a good spray, then look up at Edward as I slip my hand underneath his shirt, holding a paper towel behind the stain while I press against the front of it with another paper towel.

"What is that?" His voice is soft and inquisitive. His words slip across my skin, and they make me feel calm.

"It's hairspray," I reply, smiling. I've never been this close to him before, and his lips are so full and pink. He's got a tiny scar just above his right eyebrow, where the small, light line marks an otherwise flawless forehead. I want to ask him how he got it, but the question seems too intimate, even though I'm standing here with one of my hands up his shirt.

"You just happen to have a can of it in your desk?"

"I like to be prepared." I spray his shirt again, grab fresh paper towels, and reposition my hands.

"You and toner stains are old friends then?" Edward smiles. God, his teeth are perfectly straight, and so white. I want to use whatever toothpaste he uses. Did he wear braces? It'd be a damn shame if his parents spent good money on orthodontia to correct a smile that he uses so infrequently.

"Not so much friends as enemies," I laugh. "I had an incident with magenta a couple of years ago; nearly ruined my favorite pants. I looked like I'd been stabbed. I did a little CPR, and-"

"You were able to save them?" he asks. He sounds genuinely interested, not like he's just making conversation with me because I'm keeping his shirt from becoming a useless rag.

"I was. I wore them yesterday, actually."

"So you're telling me not to lose hope?"

Is he joking with me? Am I dreaming? I look around the room, and everything _seems_ normal enough. Maybe I've managed to drift into an alternate universe or something.

"I think it's gonna pull through. It's a good thing you had your sleeves rolled up though, because this stuff is hard to get out of the cuffs for some reason."

"Small miracles," he replies. "Did you come up with this routine all on your own?"

I shake my head. "Nah. There's this thing on the internet called Google. You should look it up sometime."

Edward laughs, and the sound of it makes me smile.

"You know, I think I've heard of it," he says, narrowing his eyes at me. They crinkle just a bit in the corner when he grins, and those lines make him look like he's lighter than air.

"Spill coffee on yourself again, Cullen?" I look over and see Mike leaning up against the door frame, chomping obnoxiously on an apple.

The easy air between me and Edward gets sucked right out of the room by Newton's ginormous, troublemaking mouth. I've seen the two of them go at it more than once, so I intervene before things get ugly.

"Big words coming from someone who walked around with ketchup on their shirt for most of yesterday," I say.

"Touché, Swan," Mike replies through a mouthful of fruit. "Touché."

When he's gone, I toss the paper towels, and brush my fingers across Edward's shirt. "There. I think that's about as good as it's gonna get."

Edward looks down at the nearly spotless fabric where the toner used to be, and the right side of his mouth turns up into a smile. "Wow."

"You should change this as soon as you can, and wash it in cold water. Make sure all the toner's out before you put it in the dryer."

He runs a hand through his hair, and when I look at his coal-colored forehead, I laugh.

"You should probably wash your hands, too." When he sees his palms, he shakes his head. "And your face," I say, reaching up to run my finger across the streak of ink that's smudged on his skin. I hold my finger up so he can see it, and his grassy green eyes grow wide.

"Oh," he laughs. His nose scrunches up as he rubs his forehead with the back of his hand.

He walks out, but a few seconds later, he's back. He moves his hand up to grip the door frame, but stops himself before he touches it.

"Hey, Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. You really don't know how much...I just...yeah. Thanks."

He's finally poked his head out from behind that ever-present wall of defensiveness and stress, and even though he's the same person, he looks completely different. He's all friendly bright eyes that make me want to tell him my life story, and warm, welcoming smiles that make me wish he would tell me his. If this Edward could manage to stick around for a while, I think I'd find it really hard not to like him.

"Anytime," I reply, smiling. "Just do your clothes a favor, and next time the copier acts up, call for backup before you throw the first punch, okay?"

"Deal," he laughs, then waves before he walks away.

Yeah, I would definitely like_ that_ guy a lot.

I pull the busted drum of toner out, and carefully put a new one in. Once I have the paper jam cleared, the machine beeps and roars to life, quickly churning page after page through the feeder.

I take the warm papers off the tray when they're finished, and turn them over on top of the lid. I expect to see copies of spreadsheets or expenses, but this stuff is definitely _not_ work-related. The first page is a copy of two checks written out to Edward, and there's the name and address of a church and reception hall written in his handwriting at the bottom right-hand corner.

I pull the originals out of the feeder, and place the copies on top. I want to look through them so badly; my fingers are just drawn to the edge of the first page, and they itch to flip it over. Oh, God, I feel like I'm _this_ close to solving the Rubik's Cube that is Edward Cullen, and if I can manage to make myself rifle through his personal stuff, I'll have all of his colors matched up.

It's _so_ tempting. So very, _very_ tempting. My index finger and thumb hold the corner of the paper between them, and they want to lift the paper up. They want it so badly that I almost can't control them. Even the atmosphere knows that I'm up to no good, because the air around me is so thick that I can't push my arm against it. I can't make it move.

Instead, I stare at the curling loops of the handwriting on the checks. So neat, and so feminine. Even though they have different designs, they both come from the same person, written on two different days. One Tanya Lanedi, who lives out in Redmond. Is Tanya Lanedi from Redmond, Washington as beautiful as her handwriting is? Why do I care? And why did she give him a hundred dollars? Actually, I'm probably better off not knowing.

There are many things I don't know, but one thing I'm absolutely sure of is that you never learn good things about people when you go snooping through their stuff. I found that out the hard way when I was nine years old, and I came across Emmett's stash of nudie mags while I was digging under his bed. I don't want to be _that _girl again; the one who pries and steals other people's secrets. So, I pick up the papers to give them back to Edward, and-

"Those are mine," he says. He looks panic-stricken for a moment, before his lips press together in a thin, angry line. His eyes harden into stone, his gaze so cold and sharp that it could cut through glass.

Every nerve in my body comes alive—frantic and feverish—making my skin feel electric and hot; so hot that my fingers could burn through the paper. Soon, the remorse sets in, cold and oppressive. It squelches the fire as it creeps up the small of my back and over my shoulders, cloaking my arms and chest with heaviness. I didn't look at anything, but I _wanted_ to, and I _could_ have. That's bad enough.

"I know, I...I got the machine to work, and I realized..." I will my mouth to stop moving, and I clamp it shut, biting down on the flesh of my lip to keep myself from making this worse than it already is.

"These aren't any of your business," he says icily, as he reaches out and snatches the papers from my hand. The swiftness of the movement burns my fingertips, and I instinctively take a step backward to create some distance. I don't like this Edward; I want the other one back.

"I didn't look, I just wanted..." Shut up, Bella. Just shut up.

Edward closes his eyes, and breathes a heavy breath through his nose. The papers in his hand brush noisily against his pants, as he roughly rubs the side of his face with the palm of the other, from his temple all the way down to the cleft in his chin. When he's finished, his skin is all red and splotchy, and I try not to look at it.

His eyes focus on the ceiling, and he sighs before he pivots on his heel and walks out the door. As he sprints down the hallway, shoulders squared with determination, I can almost see the wall built back up around him. It makes my heart sink.

A couple of hours later, I'm sitting at my desk replying to an email when Edward flies past, his BlackBerry practically glued to his ear. I see it's him out of the corner of my eye, but I can't bring myself to look at him. I'm still so embarrassed about earlier, even though I technically didn't do anything wrong. I _wanted_ to, and I know that Edward thinks I _did_, and that's enough to make the guilt settle heavily in my stomach, like a brick.

He sits down at his desk and frantically rustles through his papers. I hear a few profanities, and even though I can't make out the actual conversation Edward's having, I can tell that it isn't a good one. He runs his fingers through his hair until it sticks up in nearly every direction, and then he sits back and takes a deep breath while he scans the top of his desk. A few seconds later he jolts forward, and it seems like he's finally found what he's looking for.

For the next few minutes, the rest of his conversation floats by my ears in whispers, and when he finally hangs up, he cradles his head in his hands and roughly rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. It's times like these, when I can practically feel his stress pulsing through the air, that I feel like I'm watching a drowning man. I want to throw him a life preserver, but I don't know how to save him. And even if I did, I'm not entirely sure that he wants to be saved.

He jumps when his phone rings again, and I expect more of the same frenzied whispering and panic, but it doesn't come. Instead, he sinks back into his chair, smiling against the receiver as his arms relax at his sides, and the tension falls completely off his face. It's a complete contrast to the person he was just two minutes ago, and it confuses me. Edward's frustration often melts away into kindness, and that makes it nearly impossible for me to get a read on him.

I focus my attention back on my work, so he won't see me watching him like the creeper that I am. I wish I could be indifferent to everyone like most people seem to be, but no: I fixate on the antisocial ones, and try to figure them out. Maybe I should've been a psychologist. Mom would've _loved_ that. Sure, I'd be up to my eyeballs in debt, but it'd be a hell of a lot more interesting than staring at spreadsheets all day.

Luckily, Edward interrupts my endless thought process before I can think up more imaginary careers for myself, because my brain playing the 'What if?' game is a very dangerous thing.

"I need to get these numbers in, but I have to go to a...thing," he says, pointing towards the door. "I was wondering if maybe you could...if you would mind entering them in for me?" He seems nervous and unsure of himself, completely different than he was the last time we spoke. That heavy brick of guilt in my belly comes surging to life, moving my hand forward to take the file folder he's holding.

"Sure," I say, attempting a smile. In reality, I hate doing this, because I always manage to mess up Edward's anal-retentive system in one way or another. But I can't find it in myself to tell him no, because I feel like I owe him one.

"It needs to be finished by two, so..."

"It's not a problem, Edward. I'll have it done."

"Okay," he says, turning to leave. He gets a few steps away before he turns back. "Please. I meant to ask if you would do that, _please_."

I can't help but smile at him, and he jogs out the door before I have a chance to respond.

I open the spreadsheet that Edward has saved on our shared drive, and I notice that he's got the sums for the different rows calculated incorrectly. I think that Excel is the bastard spawn of Satan, and I hate formulas, but if Edward doesn't catch his mistake, I'll have to put three times the work into fixing it later, so I might as well just fix it now. It takes twenty long minutes, two sticks of gum, twenty-six curse words, and three broken pencils before I get everything to add up the right way.

I stand up to stretch and take a quick breather, and after I sit back down, I pull the receipts out of the folder and begin to sort them by amount. I'm about halfway through the stack when I see a yellow sheet of legal paper mixed in with the other paperwork. It's covered in Edward's handwriting; full of street addresses, the name of a bank, and several dollar amounts that have been scratched out. Tanya, the check writer's name, is scrawled out a few times in the top right-hand corner in different scripts, almost like he was doodling while he talked on the phone.

Towards the bottom, in neat cursive lettering, I see something that makes my heart skip a beat.

My name.

_My_ name on _Edward's_ paper.

I quickly turn the paper over, adrenaline pumping through my veins so fast that it makes the tips of my fingers tingle. Why do I feel like this? Why is my name on there? I don't even know what any of these things mean, but I know that it all makes perfect sense to Edward, and I can guess that he'd be angry if he knew I was looking at it. I don't want to be the cause of that anger again. He probably just put this in the folder by accident in his hurry to leave, but I feel like I've just violated his privacy again, even though it was definitely_ not_ my fault this time.

I stand up and quickly walk over to Edward's desk, looking over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching me. I scan the mess he's got piled up everywhere to find a good place to put the paper so that he'll be able to find it easily, but won't be so obvious that someone has seen it. I finally decide to put it in his inbox, in the middle of a stack of papers, with the doodled-over corner hanging out. Hopefully it'll catch his eye whenever he goes looking for it,_ if_ he ever goes looking for it. Maybe it's just a throwaway piece of paper, but still. I don't want to be responsible for it.

I step back and look, and it seems inconspicuous enough. The last thing I want him to know is that I've seen the thing. I realize that I'm overreacting; if that paper belonged to anyone else in this office, I wouldn't think twice about handing it back to them in the folder with the finished product. But after seeing a different side of Edward this morning, and how hard it is for him to lower his defenses, I don't want to do anything else that will make him feel like he needs to raise them around me.

I hurry back to my desk to finish entering the receipts, and when I'm done with the spreadsheet I print the report that goes with it, then place the completed file on Edward's desk, far away from that yellow paper. I sit back down in my chair and stare at my computer screen, tapping my fingers against the keyboard, even though I'm not typing anything at all. My mind is swimming with questions whose answers aren't any of my business, but I'm drowning in the need to know them anyway. This is bad, and I need a distraction.

Jessica's always good for a distraction.

Her face is full of concentration as I approach her desk, and I can see her mouth moving as she reads the words on her computer screen. It's a habit she has that I probably never would've noticed if Mike and Tyler hadn't teased her about it. She smiles when she sees me, and I smile back at her. Jessica is all friendliness, and that friendliness is contagious.

"What's up?" I ask, leaning on the waist-high bar that makes up the front of her cubicle. It occurs to me that I probably look a whole lot like Mike does every morning when I see them together here.

"Not much," she replies, reclining against the back of her chair. "Just answering a few emails, fun stuff like that. How about you?"

"I just finished some stuff for Edward."

"_That_ must've been the time of your life." She smiles sympathetically at me. "Are you the reason he ran out of here earlier?"

"I can't take credit for that one, sadly. Wish I could."

"I have no clue where he goes, even though I'm totally curious about it. Mike wants to trail him one day; he thinks Edward's involved in some kind of corporate espionage."

"What? This is one of the smaller accounting firms in Seattle. What would be the point of that?" Of all the ridiculous ideas I've heard that have been hatched in Newton's brain, this is definitely the strangest one.

"I don't know. He's got an overactive imagination. You should've heard all the weird stuff he was coming up with the other night after we watched _The Lovely Bones_." She bites her lip after the last word comes out of her mouth, and her eyebrows scrunch up with worry when she realizes that she just let her not-so-secret secret slip.

"I'd rather not know, thanks," I say, smiling. "Maybe he's got a kid he has to take care of, or a wife or something." I didn't start this conversation to dig. Yet here I am, standing in a trench, shoveling like hell.

"Pssh, he works too much overtime. In by seven, out after seven. There's no way. Besides, do you know any sane woman who would willingly marry that?"

I don't know what makes me feel like I need to defend Edward, but I do. "Come on, he's not _that_ bad. Maybe he's just uptight at work. He could be completely different when he's away from here." Did those words just come out of my mouth? Yes. Yes, they did.

Jessica's right eyebrow cocks up so high that it looks like someone's pulling on it with a string. "Are you interested or something?" she asks, moving the heart charm that hangs from her necklace from side to side across the chain. It sounds like a zipper.

"What? No. I think the office has all the romance it can handle at the moment." I feel a little bad when she blushes, so I don't push it.

"Well, I certainly hope he's not married," she says, changing the subject to take the heat off of her and Mike. "Can you imagine cooking for him? I mean, did you see what he did to that sandwich last week?"

"Yeah, that was weird, wasn't it?" I ask in an elevated whisper. I wasn't sure if anyone else had noticed it, but I'm glad that she did. "I wonder what that was about. He eats sandwiches every day, and I've never seen him do something like _that_ to it."

"He's probably one of those weirdos who has a cat named Mrs. Huffnagle or something crazy like that, and lets her eat off of china at the table, with like...a wine goblet holding her water and whatnot. He probably took it home for her, so she could have some people food." I expect her to crack a smile or laugh after she says this, but her expression is solemn. She's absolutely dead serious about this theory, and I can't even wrap my mind around it.

My eyes narrow, and my mouth tries to speak words that my brain is having trouble formulating. What I'd give to be inside her head for a day, as long as I had a guarantee that I'd be able to come back out.

"What?"

"Nothing," I laugh. "It's just that you and Mike are more perfect for each other than I would've imagined."

"What do you-"

"Hey, Bella?" Garrett calls from his office. "Can you come here for a sec?"

"I guess I should go," I say, tapping the edge of her desk with my hand.

"Have fun with that." Jessica sits up in her chair and begins typing again.

"I'll try," I reply, as I turn and walk away.

Thankfully, Garrett gives me a project that keeps me wrapped up for a couple of hours. A project that gives me no time to think of Edward, the mysterious Tanya, or Mrs. Huffnagle eating people food off of fine china.

Shortly after four, Edward returns from wherever it is that he went, looking like a man who is truly defeated. As he walks past my desk, he moves like he's pulling a ten-ton weight behind him; his footsteps are blocks of cement hitting the floor. His suit jacket hangs limply from his hand, and the sleeve drags across the ground as he moves, looking just as depressed as Edward does.

His shoulders slump, and he reaches up to loosen his tie, frantically pulling at the knot as if the thing is choking him, denying him the air he needs to stay alive. When Edward finally sits down, he cradles his head in his hands. It looks as heavy as a boulder, like it's taking every bit of effort he has left in his body to hold it upright.

When he finally sits up and starts working, he stares at his computer screen, but he doesn't get up. I'm not sure if I should go over there and talk to him, because I've been bitten more than once when it comes to his attitude. So, I check on him with an email that goes unanswered. He doesn't talk to me. He doesn't talk to anyone.

I sit quietly at my desk until I finish the project Garrett asked me to work on, and I'm surprised to see that it's seven-thirty. The office is mostly dark, apart from the little bit of light that shines through the window onto Edward's tired face. I'm about to get up and talk to him when my phone rings.

"Hello?" My voice sounds kind of hoarse and more irritated than I meant for it to.

"You sound so cheerful," my mom replies sarcastically. "Like a living, breathing ball of sunshine."

I sigh. After the way this day has gone, I should've expected a phone call from my biggest fan. "I've been here for almost twelve hours," I reply defensively.

"Good. You should be there for twelve hours every day, Bella. That's how you work your way up, and show your boss you're committed to your job. Get there before he does, and leave after."

My mother likes to provide running commentary on other people's work ethic, which is rich coming from a woman whose only job in thirty years was running the checkout register at the drug store in town for less than twenty hours a week.

"I can't work hours like that on a regular basis, Mom. It's not allowed for my position."

"Well, you work for free if you have to. Then, your boss will move you up to a position where you can. You have to think outside the box, Bella. Sometimes rules are meant to be followed, and sometimes they're made to be broken."

I wonder if this is what she says to my father after he comes home from one of his shifts. I want to tell her that she's delusional, and make a snide remark about how doing things her way might end with me getting a promotion, sure, even though I'll probably die of stress-related heart failure before I have a chance to enjoy the rewards. She'll only tell me to stop being so dramatic, and that will piss me off even more. So, I keep my mouth shut.

"Okay, Mom. You've made your point. Obviously you're not worried about my boss seeing me taking a personal call, so to what do I owe the honor?"

Mom sighs. "Since it's impossible to reach you on your cell lately, I wanted to tell you that your father and I are expecting you at home this weekend. Rose and Emmett will be here, and we're going to celebrate their engagement on Saturday night."

She doesn't ask me if I have any plans, or if I can make it. Of course not, because I'm the single daughter who threw the little bit of life she had away, so why wouldn't I be at her disposal? Why wouldn't I just drop everything to do what she wants me to do, when she wants me to do it?

If it were for anything else, I'd probably be willing to start a fight over it. But I love Em, and I love Rose, and I'd walk over hot coals for them. The hot coals in this instance being, of course, my mother.

"Okay, I'll be there."

"Good," Mom says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "How are things at home?"

That weight that I've managed to keep at bay, that dark, sad thing that's been suspended above me, just out of sight, comes hurtling full-speed toward me. For over a week I've managed not to think about it; not to let it squeeze my heart and make my chest ache. Seven days of progress nearly undone by five simple words.

_This_ is my test. Not how many nights I can go to sleep without dreaming of him, and wake up without missing him. This, _this _is where it counts. I can let her drop that weight on me, and crush me, and make me cry. I can let her make me feel guilty about loving someone enough to let him go.

I can let her win, and break me. It would be so easy to do, because that's what I've always done.

But today, I won't give her the satisfaction of tears and shame. I won't bend, and I won't break. I won't let her crush me. Today, I'll breathe. And I'll move. I'll walk away from her with my head held high, and my patched-up heart intact. Today, _I'll_ win.

"I have to go, Mom. I'll see you on Saturday," I say, and hang up the phone before she has a chance to make me want to fight.

I smile as I shut down my computer, then stand up to stretch my tired muscles out in victory. It's a small one, but I'll take it. The small things are just stepping stones to the bigger ones, I guess.

I sling my cumbersome bag over my shoulder, and maybe it's the confidence I have from dealing with my mother, or maybe it's residual guilt I feel over what happened this morning, but whatever it is moves me on sure footing over to Edward's desk.

"You planning to stay much longer?" He looks up at me, and his eyes aren't the same as they were this morning. They're heavy, in need of a few days' rest away from spreadsheets, and responsibility, and flat-panel monitors. He glances down at his watch, and then back at me.

"Another half-hour or so," he says, lowering his head so that he can rub the back of his neck. "I have to show Garrett I'm serious about this client, because...well, he could've given them to Mike, but he gave them to me."

When those tired eyes look into mine, I see it. It's clear as day, and it hits me like a punch to the gut; stealing my breath and stopping my heart, making me feel so, so dizzy with realization.

_He_ is the person my mother wants me to become.

A frantic, stressed-out worrier, with tired eyes and a heavy heart. Someone with just enough humor to keep me afloat, while my shoulders sag and my muscles ache from trying to keep up, then move ahead, and move ahead again until there's nowhere left to go, and I'm standing on the shore in first place, alone.

Does his mother push him like mine does? Did he give up his happiness so he could live out her dreams? Is there anyone in his life who wants him to _live_? Someone who wants him to earn money to take trips and see things you only get to see once in your life, not just earn money for money's sake? Isn't there anyone who loves those bright, friendly eyes, and that warm, welcoming smile, and wants to keep them from slipping away?

Because they slip all the time. Doesn't anyone notice?

I notice, and I want to stop the slip.

"I'm sure he knows you're serious," I say softly, with a grin. Then, like I no longer have control of my body, I step forward and switch on Edward's desk lamp. I like those bright, friendly eyes. I want them to see clearly.

"I'm leaving soon," he says, but he doesn't move an inch.

"You can turn it off when you leave, then. It's better for you if you have good light to work under."

"Thank you." He smiles at me. I like that warm, welcoming smile. It needs to eat.

"Can I bring you some dinner, or..."

"No, I'm good. Thanks, though. I...I brought something."

The way he's looking at me, with those eyes and that smile, I know that this is the first time anyone has turned on a light for him or offered him dinner in a very long while. He needs light and food and someone who cares. Where is that person?

"Okay, well...I'm gonna head out, so...I hope you have a really good night."

I want to ask him if he's all right, but he seems better than he was earlier, and if he wanted me to know how he was doing, he would've answered my email. I'm curious, but I don't want to pry, so I keep my mouth shut and walk toward the door.

He doesn't say anything. And that's okay, you know, because-

"Bella?" Edward calls.

I turn around, and he's leaning over his desk so that I can see him from where I'm standing. "Yeah?"

"I hope you have a really good night, too."

"I'll try, thanks."

When I look at him, that smile is still there. Tonight, it's not slipping. Maybe it was just for a minute, but I stopped the slip.

It's another small step, but it keeps me moving. I don't know if this Edward will still be around tomorrow, but I know he exists, and that comforts me.

As I walk down to my car, I feel good about my day for the first time since I've been working here. It's not a lot, but it's something. Every once in a while, like today, that _some_thing is _every_thing. It propels me through stoplights and traffic and a crowded apartment parking lot. It pushes me up the steps to my front door, and eagerly turns the key in its lock. It makes me happy to be home. In _my_ home.

Before I even set my bag down, my phone rings, and I reach over the counter to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Jesus, Bell. You scared the _shit_ out of me. I thought some lame-ass wannabe grunge rocker had drowned you in a vat of Starbucks or something," he says, managing to sound irritated _and_ like he wants to laugh, all at the same time.

"You really need to come up with some new Seattle jokes, Em."

"Yeah, noted. Seriously though, where _were_ you? I tried calling your cell about a hundred times!" He gets all worked up like this on the rare occasion that he can't get in touch with me, because he thinks danger is lurking around every corner for me here in the big, bad city. It's endearing, but annoying as hell.

"I have to turn it off when I'm at work."

"Embarrassed by that Backstreet Boys ringtone, are ya?" he replies smugly.

"I switched it back already, thief. And don't think I'm unaware that song came from your own music collection."

"It was Rosie's," he says defensively, too quickly to be telling the truth.

"Yeah, sure it was," I reply. I open the refrigerator and pull out a few things to make for dinner. My stomach is growling, and I'm surprised Emmett can't hear it through the receiver. "I'll have to ask her about that."

"You need to turn your phone back on when you leave work, so I don't have a panic attack trying to get in touch with you." He thinks he's so stealthy, changing the subject.

"You're too overprotective, big brother. Besides, I only left the office about twenty minutes ago." I pop the top off a container of sour cream, and quickly throw it in the trash. Clearly, I need to pay attention to expiration dates more often. Yuck.

"But it's eight o'clock!" he says, so loudly I can feel my eardrum vibrating.

"You know, I _can _actually tell time."

"What are you doing at work so late?" He sounds suspicious, like he's getting ready to catch me in a lie.

"My boss gave me a project to work on, and I wanted to finish it up before I left for the night." I bend down and pull out a skillet from one of the bottom cabinets, and turn the front burner on to medium-high heat.

"You don't do that every day do you? Not at this new place, right?" I realize that wasn't suspicion I heard earlier; it was concern.

"No, I leave around five every day," I tell him. "This is the first time I've ever stayed late."

"Good," he says, in a long, exhausted sigh. "I don't want you turning into one of those corporate types with a BlackBerry glued to your face, and a computer on your lap every time you stop to take a shit, just because Mom wants you to be like that."

"You're so eloquent, Emmett. Mom must be proud." I pull a small container of rice off of the top shelf of the fridge, and I pop it in the microwave. "Speaking of Mom..."

"She got to you, didn't she? I was calling to warn you, and if you'd had your phone-"

"Ugh, drop it, okay? I don't want to fight with you before the weekend, because I'm counting on you to sneak some liquor into the house. Lots of it, preferably."

"I'll have Rosie fill up our flasks," he says, laughing. "You don't have to come, you know..."

"I know I don't _have_ to. But it's for you, and I _want_ to."

"Okay," he replies brightly. I bet he's smiling that huge Emmett smile, the one that makes me long for one of his bear hugs I get lost in before he gives me a noogie. "You eat yet?"

"I will be soon."

"What are you having? I'm fending for myself, since Rosie is in Portland 'til tomorrow."

"I'm just making some chicken and vegetables."

Emmett chokes out this disgusting, retching, gagging noise that makes me laugh.

"I think I'll stick to pizza."

"Healthy," I reply sarcastically.

"I'll see you this weekend. And make sure you turn your phone on."

Jerk.

"Make sure you hide your Backstreet Boys CDs from Rose," I tease.

"Night, Bell."

"Night."

I put the phone back on its base, then carefully lay the chicken down in the hot skillet. When everything has finished cooking, I arrange it on my plate, and stand back and smile. There are no leftovers, no meals for two. There's just enough to fit on one plate. For me.

I pour myself a glass of wine, and sit down at the table. I don't turn on the television or the radio, and I don't crave any background noise. I don't try to make things the way they used to be. I settle into the way things _are_, and it's easy. Like breathing.

I eat, and I enjoy the silence while I admire the vivid purple and pink watercolor sunset that shines outside my window. I'm quiet, and I'm calm. I'm alone, and it's okay.

I'm peaceful in the pleasure of my own company.


	5. Big Bang

**Chapter Five**

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_**Big Bang:**__ The theory that suggests that the universe was formed from a single point in space during a cataclysmic explosion about 18 billion years ago. The force of the explosion accounts for the current expansion of the universe._

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You know that apprehensive, uneasy feeling you get when you go to the dentist? How your palms start to sweat when you sit down on that long, fake leather chair that's supposed to be comfortable but isn't? The way the stale, recycled air that smells like rubbing alcohol and remnants of nitrous oxide makes your stomach turn every time you take a breath? The pounding of your heart in your throat when you look at the tray full of shiny, sterilized, torture devices? The prickling of your nerves beneath your skin when you wonder which one of the pointy instruments of pain will be yanking, and pulling, and scraping your teeth?

Visiting my parents is like one long, anxiety-ridden visit to the dentist.

During the trip from Seattle to Forks, I wonder if it'll be only mildly unpleasant, like getting a cavity filled, or if I'm heading into a root canal. I try to distract myself with music, but my thoughts stay focused on that unassuming, quaint little house of horrors with the white siding and black shutters that sits on the lot right smack in the middle of Elderberry Avenue.

When I make the left onto our street and see Emmett pacing behind his beat-up old truck that's parked by the curb in front of Mrs. Goodman's house, I know I'm not facing a root canal. I'm going to have each one of my teeth slowly and painfully drilled by loud, sharp tools that will wail and grind in my ear; that I'll feel the vibration all the way down to my bones.

His jaw clenches and his eyes widen when he sees me turn, and the stony look on his ghost-white face is enough to make my heart stop right along with my car. I sit here and drum my fingertips across the top of the steering wheel while I try to keep my lungs breathing in and out. Emmett is impatient, however, and he pounds over to the passenger side, pulling the door open angrily.

He leans in and rummages through my purse, pushing my hand away when I try to stop him.

"What the hell, Emmett, you can't just-"

Seconds later, he pulls my cell phone out, and holds it up to my face before tossing it in my lap.

"Didn't I tell you to make sure you turn this fucking thing on?" he says angrily. My trembling hands fumble to flip it open, and I'm surprised at the number that pops up on the tiny screen. Fifteen missed calls. _Fifteen_.

A rush of adrenaline shoots across me that makes me feel like my skin has fallen off of my body and pooled at my feet. Emmett slams the door and starts pacing again, beside my car this time. A hundred awful scenarios speed through my brain like a freight train: Dad injured on duty, Mom cutting herself with a kitchen knife...

I push my door open and stand up, turning quickly to see Emmett with his arms folded across the roof of my car, pinching the bridge of his nose. I figure he wouldn't be waiting for me so calmly if something were horribly wrong, and this eases my worry a little. Only a little.

"What's going on?" I ask slowly, cautiously. I feel like my entire existence is hanging on his answer; like my whole life is sitting at the edge of a cliff, and he's either going to pull it back to safety or push it right on over the edge.

His big brown eyes soften as they meet mine, and he's quiet. Then, he pushes.

"Jake's at the house."

My body knows me so well that it immediately folds on itself, trying to make me smaller, to let me hide. I bend at the waist, and then again at the knees, as I clutch my stomach and try not to let all of my insides come tumbling out. I try to keep moving, and breathing.

It's strange, the way time suspends itself when you're falling; how you should be thinking about what will happen when you land, not what's floating by you as you go. I should be thinking of so many things, but instead my eyes focus on the tiny bits of gravel that fan out just past the toes of my flip flops, and how my big toenail's polish is chipped right on the edge. A huge chip that breaks apart a sea of red. I close my eyes and imagine the way my mother's voice will sound when she mentions it. How she'll hand me some polish remover and a new bottle of pink, or something that will look better with my skin tone, so I can fix it right on the spot.

I try to think about anything but Jake. Jake, whose ratty old armchair left an empty, light mark on the carpet that I finally covered up with something new. Jake, who took his Tranquil Moments Sound Machine and left me with restless, sleepless nights that have finally turned into quiet, peaceful ones. Jake, who I gave my heart to, and then asked for it back. Jake, who is five houses away.

"What's he...?" I ask Emmett's toes, which have suddenly appeared in front of me. I can't get the right words out, because my heart is just flip flopping around in my chest, like a fish on a pier under the hot, hot sun. I'm starting to sweat, even though a cool breeze fans through my hair, making me shiver. I feel like I might throw up.

"Do you know our mother? What do you think he's here for?" Emmett says quietly through irritation, as he crouches down to my level.

I feel so warped and uneven. Everything is bending or twisting: my body, as it tries to shut down; my heart, as it tries to keep beating; and my mind, as it does its damnedest to figure out a way to rebel against my mother's will. Why am I so stupid? How could I not have seen this coming? The second she extended her invitation, I should've known there was an ulterior motive. There _always _is.

I'm bending and twisting and crumbling. I'm not breathing, and I'm not moving. I'm stuck. Bent. Twisted. Crumbled.

Then, because he wouldn't be the brother I know and love if he didn't, Emmett tries to right me again.

He kneels down in front of me, and lifts my chin up so he can look into my eyes. He clasps my hand in his, and rubs my back as I slowly stand. I run my fingers through my hair and breathe. The bent unbends. The twisted untwists. The more I breathe, the more clearly I think.

"Are you okay, Bell?" Emmett asks, as his hand slides reassuringly across my shoulders.

I look up at him and nod, but I don't say anything. Not yet.

"If it makes you feel any better, he didn't know this was a setup," Emmett says. "Mom invited him for dinner, and she didn't tell him either. He tried to leave, but you know how she can be." He curls a wavy strand of my hair around his finger before he gently pats my back, and lifts up the side of his mouth in a wry grin. "He's kind of like you, you know. He doesn't like a fight."

I believe Emmett, because that sounds a lot like Jake. And he's right, that sounds a hell of a lot like me, too. Up 'til now, I always thought not wanting a fight was a good thing. Peaceful people end wars and smooth rifts; they bring families who are separated back together again. Now I realize that there's such a thing as being _too_ peaceful.

Just because I don't want to get wrapped up in dramatics, doesn't mean I should let people walk all over me. There's peaceful, and then there's cowardly, and for far too long, I've been a coward. _Jake's_ Bella would've run far away from this, or let my mother have her way. _Bella's_ Bella is ready to take her life back.

"Dad's pissed," Emmett says, leaning back against the side of my car and folding his arms against his chest. "He's old friends with Billy, so he won't say so in front of Jake, but you know the way his mustache gets all twitchy when he wants to go off on someone. Mom sees it too; she knows she's in for it, so she's holding on to Jake like he's the last life preserver on the Titanic."

I look at my brother and laugh. He smiles at me, and I begin to steel myself for the fight of a lifetime.

"We don't have to go in there, you know," he says, turning his head and eyeing the driver's side of my car. "We could take a trip up to the border, be in Vancouver in no time. I've got ten bucks in my wallet just dying to be spent at Tim Horton's. I'll buy you all of those dainty little sprinkled girl donuts you want if it'll put a smile on your face. By the time we get back, Jake'll be gone, and Mom'll be passed out on the couch wondering where we are." He looks down the road, then back at me. "You don't have to do anything you're not ready to do."

It's tempting to take him up on his offer; I'd be lying if I said it wasn't. But if I run now, I'll keep running. And if I keep running from her, then all the quiet dinners for one, and the peaceful nights' sleeps will mean nothing. They'll mean nothing, because a small piece of that old Bella will still be around. If I let even the tiniest bit of her stay, it would be too easy for her to come back again.

I don't want to be that person. I won't _let_ her make me be that person.

I turn to Emmett, and I grin. It really is now or never. "It's okay, I'm ready."

He pushes himself upright, and claps his hands. This is the answer he was hoping for, and I can't help but love him for not trying to push me into it. I wonder where he learned that, because it certainly wasn't from our mother.

"Give me a ten-minute head start," he says, smiling.

"What for?"

"Well, I thought it'd be really obvious if I just ran out of the house once Jake showed up. Mom had me go up to the Thriftway earlier. I told her I forgot my wallet with the cashier." Emmett's chest is all puffed out; I can tell he's proud of himself for that little bit of subterfuge.

"What if I hadn't been so close? How long would you have waited?"

"As long as it took for you to show up," he says, shrugging. "I couldn't let you go in there not knowing what kind of scheme Mom had cooked up."

The wave of warmth I feel for Emmett surges out of my heart, moving my feet forward and wrapping my arms around his waist. I bury my head in my brother's chest, and he holds me, so tight. "I love you, Em."

He smiles, and kisses my forehead before he pulls away.

"Ten minutes," he says, as he throws his keys up in the air and catches them quickly.

"Ten minutes." I open my car door and wait.

During the six-hundred seconds I sit in silence, I formulate a plan. I'm unsure about it at first, and as my car slowly rolls up the driveway and I see Jake's motorcycle, I'm nervous. But when I step out onto the driveway and walk up my parents' creaky old porch steps, I feel surer with every move I make.

By the time I open the front door, my shoulders are square. My head is held high, and I'm ready for battle. I'm confident, and poised.

I step over the threshold and into the house, and it's almost as if time stands still. The talking stops, and everyone turns to look at me. The only noise I can hear is water boiling in an abandoned pot on the stove.

I feel like I'm looking at a picture. A snapshot of a trap. Most of the faces are blurry, because I can only focus on _him_.

Jake is on the far side of the table, next to Emmett. He's stiff as a board; sitting up so straight that it looks like he's fused to a steel rod. His eyes are wide when he sees me, and I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. I know that face; I've seen it countless times before. If I didn't believe Emmett when he told me that Jake was uncomfortable with this, then I have my proof right here. I give him a sympathetic smile, and his eyes narrow as his brows crease together in confusion. He's already caught, and here I am, walking into this mess voluntarily.

My heart beats against my ribs a few times before returning to normal, and I'm surprised at myself. This isn't the way I thought things would go when I saw Jake for the first time since our breakup. I expected to feel that twisting and turning of the old Bella trying to find her way back out. I thought I'd have to fight an ache in my throat and prickling in my eyes as I looked at him and remembered everything that happened _that_ day.

There's nothing but cool calm, and the hope of closure.

"Glad you finally made it," Mom says, breaking the silence as she moves to stand behind Jake. She has this strange smile on her face; it's tight and stretches over her teeth in an odd way. Her eyebrows are raised, and her eyes are full of expectation. She wants me to react. So I don't.

"Jake joined us, isn't that great?" Her voice is all sweetness and sunshine; a bowl of sugar to lure me closer and make me feel safe. I don't take the bait.

"Hi," I say. My voice is clear, and I smile at Jake just to confuse my mother, to throw her off track.

"Hi," he replies with a grin. The steel rod keeping him upright melts, and his shoulders sink into that familiar slump that I know so well.

Mom senses this confrontation isn't going the way she planned, so she lurches forward, placing a hand on each of Jake's shoulders. She hovers over him like a wild animal protecting her young from a predator. As if _I'm _the dangerous one in this scenario. I almost want to laugh.

I want to free him. I want to free _both of us_.

"Can I talk to you outside?" I sound polite and reserved, which is good, because I don't want to fight. Not with him, anyway.

"Dinner's almost ready," Mom says again. Her perfectly polished pink claws dig into his t-shirt, warning him not to get up, not to come with me. "There will be plenty of time to talk after we eat."

Of course there will. Everything on _her_ time, _her_ schedule, _her_ way. It's like I'm not even in control of my own life anymore. It's the Renee Swan Show, featuring Bella.

"Sit down, Bella," Mom says politely, eyeing my empty chair. "You can talk later."

"Dammit, Renee," Dad says, slamming his beer can down on the table. Mom flinches, but she doesn't move. "Just let the kid go."

"We won't be long." I look back at Jake. "Wanna come?"

"Yeah," he says, rolling his shoulders to release Mom's grip.

As I turn around to walk out the door, I can almost see a huge grin on Emmett's face.

A minute later, Jake and I are out on the front porch swing, sitting a foot or two apart. It hasn't been_ that_ long since I've seen him last, but I've already forgotten how comfortable he can make me, how he lowers my defenses.

The creaking of old chains against wood as we swing fills the cool evening air between us for a very long time. We both sit, elbows on knees and hands clasped together, heads hanging low, without a single word passing between our lips.

"Your mom invited me," Jake finally says. I look over at him, and he's tracing a line on his palm with his index finger. "She's done that a few times over the past month and a half or so. I thought this was just a normal dinner, and I just...I don't want you to think that I was part of this, of trying to trick you or anything."

"I don't," I reply. "Don't worry about that." Jake is many things, but he's not deceitful.

He nods, and then the creaking fills the air again. I'm okay with letting it talk for me for now, because I spent too much time steeling myself to see him, and didn't sort out what exactly I was going to say to him once we got to this place.

"Jasper and Alice, huh?" Jake says. "A baby. Wow."

This is good. It'll be easier to work our way into a conversation if it isn't about us.

"I know, right? It seems like just last week that they got married."

"It's all Jasper can talk about. You should hear how excited he is."

In all the times I've seen the two of them since the breakup, neither Jasper nor Alice has once mentioned keeping in touch with Jake. I feel selfish now for never having asked, but it makes me glad to know that we were able to keep some things from the time we were together.

"It's definitely something to be excited about."

That comfort I was feeling slowly turns to awkwardness as our conversation fizzles.

"I went on a date," Jake blurts out, like a sinner in a confessional. "It was a couple of weeks ago. I know it's kind of soon, but my dad was getting worried about me walking around in a funk, so I did it. It felt good, but wrong, too. It was different, and...I felt like I was cheating on you."

I expect his admission to hurt more than it does. In fact, I'm surprised it doesn't hurt at all. I don't want to know the gory details of it, but Jake's been out there breathing and moving, too. It makes me happy for him, and even a little jealous that he seems to have moved on so quickly.

"Is that what it feels like?"

Jake's eyes narrow at me, and then he looks surprised. "You haven't..."

I shake my head. "No, I haven't. I've just been kind of...learning to live again."

"Oh," he says, as all the air rushes out of him in one long sigh. He turns away from me, and I wonder if he's feeling guilty.

"I'll get there eventually," I say, playfully tapping his knee. "I think we just deal with things differently."

"Yeah, we definitely do." He smiles, and shakes his head as he looks down at the ground. "What happened with us? Where did it all just-"

"Go wrong?"

"Yeah," he replies. "We were so close, and then we weren't anymore. And you know, it's like, I couldn't even see it until you pointed it out. How fucked up is that?"

"I felt it. I knew that distance was there, but I ignored it, because I didn't want to look. I kept my eyes closed for so long that it just became-"

"Too big."

"_Way_ too big."

Jake's quiet, then he sighs before he looks at me and speaks. "I loved you," he says. "I still...I don't want you to ever think that I didn't. It's the biggest thing I've ever known." His eyes are so honest and expressive. There's not room for a single lie in them.

"I don't think that." Tears spill down my cheeks. "I loved you, too. I'll always love you, Jake. But it's not..."

"It's not enough."

I move over a bit to close the distance between us, and I take his hand in mine.

"I just want you to be happy."

"I know," he mutters. "That's all I want for you, too."

Jake gently slides his fingers over the back of mine before lacing them together, and I stare at the contrast between our skin; how rough his feels against my own. This hand has held mine through so _many_ things, and lifted me up more times than I can count.

This _hand_. It's slid across my body through the quietest whispers, beneath the softest sheets, and it knows all my secret places. It's wiped tears of happiness from smiling cheeks, and dried trails of sadness from red, watery eyes. It's pulled me into places I've never been before, and brought me back to the ones I never thought I'd go again.

This hand, with its calluses, and strong fingers, and dark creases across the palms, is attached to the arm of a man whose face is familiar, but who I don't really know anymore. This hand used to be my lifeline.

Now, it's just a hand.

"Do you remember the first time we sat here like this?" he asks wistfully, as he moves closer to me across the swing.

I feel bad, but I'm honest. "No."

Jake smiles at me, and laughs a little bit. He's always been better at remembering small details like that.

"Your parents were having a barbecue, and you were upset, because Sam and Quil were picking on you, remember? Your mom made you wear that pink outfit with the flowers all over it-"

"And the matching bow," we both say at the same time.

_Now_ I remember. "You told me I was cooler than the red Power Ranger," I say. The memory feels good; light, and fun.

"What a geek I was," he says, laughing.

"Don't laugh." I knock my knee playfully against his. "It was sweet. You were always a good friend to me, Jake. _Always_."

"Friends." He looks down at the floor before his eyes meet mine again. "Do you think we can..."

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. This is the part I'm unsure about. It's easy, here on my parents' porch, rocking back and forth. It's the world beyond the front steps that I'm worried about. The world that I've just begun to discover on my own.

"I want you in my life, Jake, but right now, I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I just don't want it_ all_ to be gone, you know?"

"Maybe after some time has passed?" I say, attempting to sound hopeful.

"Maybe," Jake replies, nodding as we swing a little more, fingers still laced together.

It's not too long before his hand falls from mine, and he stands up, making the old wood of the swing creak and groan. "I should probably get going. I'm sure you're hungry, and I'm guessing you've got a lot more to deal with in there," he says, nodding toward the front door. "I'm sorry if I made things harder for you today."

"Don't worry," I reply with a grin. "I'm glad I got to see you. I think it was good to, you know, get this out of the way."

"Definitely." He walks down two steps, then turns to me. We're about the same height when we stand like this, and Jake reaches up and puts his hands on either side of my face. His thumbs slide over my cheeks, and he smiles that bright smile that I haven't seen in _so_ long. He leans forward, and his lips brush across my forehead just like they used to when we were little.

"I'll always think you're cooler than the red Power Ranger," he says.

I reach up and put my hands on his, just for a moment, before they slip away. This time, when his skin leaves mine, it doesn't make my heart ache. It's a good slip, the very best kind; the kind where I let go and watch him walk out into the world towards good things. And I'm happy for him, even though those good things don't include me.

When he straddles his bike and waves at me before he puts his helmet on, I feel one brief, shining moment of peace.

Until my mother opens the front door.

"Where's he going?" she asks, practically running to the steps and flinging her arm across the railing as Jake makes a left out of the driveway. "What did you do?" She turns on me ferociously with anger flashing in her eyes.

I feel a fire start to burn in the pit of my belly, licking hotly against my skin as she looks at me like I've just stolen something from her. As if _I'm_ the enemy, the thief, the pusher.

"Why can't you just mind your own business?" I ask loudly, my voice dripping with acid. "Just for _once_, Mom, mind your own fucking business!"

She looks at me like she's stunned. Then her eyes narrow and her lips press into a thin line. "You're ruining everything! Your job, Jake...you're throwing everything away, Bella. I won't stand by and watch you ruin your life."

"You push too hard! You push and push and push me until I'm ready to give up just so you'll leave me the hell alone. _My_ life isn't _your_ second chance, Mom. If you screwed yours up so badly and you're so pathetic that you want to fix it through me, then-"

"Hey, now," Dad says firmly, as his hand squeezes my shoulder. "_Stop_." When I turn around to look at him, his angry eyes are on my mother, not me. "Go up to your room and cool off. You can't talk to your mother like that."

I want to stay and argue, but I don't. I have his temper, and we both have a tendency to say things we regret when we're angry. I look at my mother, face bright red and chest heaving with short breaths, just dying to retaliate, and I leave her to my father. I pound up the steps and into my room, slamming the door behind me.

I sit on the edge of my bed, and stare at the floor while my heartbeat calms and my breath settles. The hateful words that were on the tip of my tongue slide back down my throat where they belong. I'm glad they never found their way out. How can I ask her to treat me like an adult when I argue like a child?

I lie back and rest my head on my pillow, organizing my thoughts through loud voices that float up the stairs. The light summer sky turns gray, then black, and two angry slams followed by headlights and a groaning engine vibrate through the air. When I turn my head, I look at the green numbers on the clock that sits on my nightstand. It's 10:34.

I roll my legs across the bed until they're hanging off the side, then push myself up until I'm standing. I rub the kink out of my neck, and slowly shuffle my feet across the floor and down the stairs, nervous about the aftermath I'm sure to run into. When I turn the corner into the kitchen, my mother is sitting at the table, alone. Her hair is messy and her shoulders are hunched over the cup of coffee that sits in front of her. She looks like she's lived for a hundred years.

She doesn't look up, but I know she knows I'm here. It seems she wants to talk to me about as much as I want to talk to her. I open the cupboard and pull down a cup, then walk over to the kitchen sink and fill it from the tap.

I lean back against the counter, and I watch her as I take a long sip of my drink, running my fingers along the chipped Formica right next to the sink. I remember when Mom used to lift me up here to clean my cuts and scrapes after I fell off my bike. She'd smile gentle smiles and carefully dab cotton balls and Bactine over red, bloody skin, then make everything better with the pink Band-Aids she bought just for me.

As my finger skims across the small dip in the counter, I wonder when my wounds started coming from my mother, instead of the uneven pavement outside. Where did that woman go? The one with the gentle smiles and quiet, soft words, who bought pink Band-Aids and made me feel like I was the most special person in her world. She's lost somewhere inside the bitter shell of the person sitting in front of me now.

I look up as she turns her cup in circles, the glass scraping against the wood, and her eyes all puffy and dark. I struggle to remember who she used to be before she began filling her days and mine with so much pressure and judgment. I love her despite how frustrated and angry she makes me. I love her, but I can't live my life for her, and I just can't carry the weight anymore.

"Are you all right?" I don't sound as genuine as I should, but I can't get the anger out of my voice, even though I don't try very hard.

Mom says nothing for a long while; she just turns that cup around and around on top of the table. "Your dad left."

Her words send a jolt of panic through me, and I push off of the counter and turn my head to look out the door. I don't know exactly what I'm expecting to find there, but all I see is Emmett and Rose sitting on the steps outside.

"He'll be back," she says, and she sounds so worn down. "He always comes back."

The way she looks, I can tell this isn't the first time my dad has stormed out on her. I feel shaken, because I've never thought about my parents having trouble with their marriage before, but now, now I can see it plain as day.

"Did you fight?" This seems like a fairly stupid question, because it's obvious that they have. My dad doesn't pick up and leave in the middle of the night for no reason; he's just not that kind of guy.

Mom raises her eyes, and I see that she's been crying. They're so red, and her cheeks are splotchy. I know I should go to her, but I can't. I just can't find it in me to move my feet.

"I don't want you to repeat the same mistakes I made," she says. "I want your life to be different from mine."

I take a minute to absorb what she's telling me. She wants me to have a different life than hers, but she wants to make sure that I have the life_ she_ wants me to have. It can only be different if it's _her_ way, otherwise it just isn't good enough.

"You want me to be miserable." The words hurt as they leave my mouth, and I feel the tears prick at my eyes. "You want me to live the life you didn't get to have." The longer I talk, the more the anger builds up inside of me. "You don't care about what_ I _want," I say angrily, slamming my glass down on the counter beside me. "You only care about what _you_ want."

Mom looks taken aback, as if I've slapped her.

"You don't understand," she says, and I see her determination beginning to build. "You have no idea what it's like to be me, and wish that..."

"Wish what?"

Mom shakes her head. "Wish that you could turn back time. I'd give anything to..."

"To not have me," I say quietly, just a whisper, and look down at the floor.

"What?" Her voice is loud, and it startles me. "Is that what you think?"

"Aren't _I _the mistake you're talking about?"

Mom sits back in her chair and looks up at the ceiling. She's blinking her eyes, and I see two tears streak down her cheeks. Her shoulders start to shake and she sniffles, but my feet stay rooted to the spot.

"How could you ever think that?" she asks, looking me right in the eye. She looks completely gutted, and I feel a pang of guilt deep in my stomach.

"That's how you make me feel, Mom. The way you talk to me, I feel like you've got this impossibly high standard that I'm always trying to reach for, but you keep it just out of my grasp. Every time I do something your way, I think maybe I get a little bit closer, but you're always standing there criticizing me, without ever trying to lift me up. You just...," I begin, swallowing against my tears, "you just beat me down. All the time. You sit here and you act like you're perfect, like-"

"You think I think _I'm_ perfect?" Mom yells, slamming her hand on the table. "I'm a forty-two year-old housewife who barely got her high school diploma before she was married and pregnant. I've raised two kids that have left home, and the only thing I'm qualified to do is stand behind a cash register for twenty hours a week! I scrimp and save my measly paycheck every week, so that someday I might be able to take a vacation instead of daydreaming while I'm reading travel magazines. So don't _you_ talk to me about happiness, Isabella." She stands up as her chair makes a loud screech across the linoleum floor, and she leans over the table. "You had it right there in your hands. You had a good job, and a man who loves you, and you just threw it all away-"

"Do you want to know what I had, Mom?" I yell, standing up straight and walking closer to the table. "I had a job where I worked for a creep who sexually harassed me, but I stayed there. I stayed because I knew that _you_ wanted me to. I lived with a man who I loved, but I fell out of love with him, and I tried _so hard_ to be happy with him. But I wasn't happy. Do you hear me? I wasn't happy!"

Mom slumps down in her chair, defeated, and I'm determined to keep going until I make my point, because I'm finally,_ finally_ standing up for myself, and it feels _good_.

"I'm sorry that you don't like the way your life turned out, but you can't keep projecting what _you_ want onto _me_. If I live my life the way you want me to, that will be _my_ mistake, and I'm _not_ going to make it. I wish you didn't regret what you have, but if you do, that's not my fault. And I can't give up my life to fix it for you."

Mom folds her arms across her chest and looks down, avoiding my eyes.

"Why can't you just love me the way that I am?" I ask through tears, with a wavering voice. "No strings attached, no judgment, no tricks. Just _love_. Because I'm your daughter. Is it so hard to _love_ me? Just the way that I am?"

She sniffles and wipes away tears before she leans forward and rests her elbows on the table. She runs her hands through her hair, then gets up and walks over to the sink. She stands there and gazes out the window, and I can see her reflection in the glass. It's soft, almost like she's a ghost, and I look at it until I can't look anymore.

This isn't a break that can be repaired with a few laughs and hugs. I've just plowed through years of hurt and inadequacies; razed everything between us down into nothingness. Now we have to rebuild; but first, one of us needs to be willing to pick up a hammer. I'm not, and her silence tells me that she isn't, either.

This is about what I expected when I thought of all the ways this conversation could end. It should upset me, but I feel such intense relief to finally have everything off of my chest. I don't know what's in store for me and Mom, but I know that I can't stay here; not tonight.

I turn and run upstairs to the bathroom to pee, so I don't have to make a stop on my long drive home. When I'm through washing my hands, I splash cold water on my face to take away some of the heat from my tears. I look at my tired, heavy eyes, and I feel proud. If my own mother can't be proud of the things I've done with my life, of the person that I've grown up to become, then I can at least be proud of myself for standing up to her.

When I walk past my parents' closed bedroom door, I hear my mother crying on the other side. I know it makes me an awful person to keep walking, but that's exactly what I do. I keep walking down the stairs and out the door, until I run into Rose and Emmett.

"You okay?" Emmett asks. He and Rose both move to the far ends of the step so that I can sit down between them. Once I'm settled, Emmett wraps his arm around me, and I sink into his chest.

"Yes," I sigh. "I feel bad, but I'm just so _relieved_."

"About Jake, or Mom?" Emmett asks.

"Both, I guess. I hate to say this, since Mom was so underhanded about the whole thing, but I think seeing Jake was good for me."

"Don't tell her that."

"Never," I reply. "It just feels good to finally have it all over, you know? I wish things could've gone as well with Mom, but..."

"It's been a long time coming," Emmett says.

"Yeah, it really has. I'm sorry I ruined your night, though," I say, looking over at Rose.

"Eh," she replies, shrugging. "A dinner is a small sacrifice to make for the sake of independence, isn't it?" She smiles at me warmly as she takes my hand. "Just make sure you get it all out before our wedding."

I laugh. "I think I can handle that."

"You did good tonight, kiddo," Emmett says. "I'm really proud of you." He squeezes my shoulder, and kisses my forehead. Then, in typical Emmett fashion, he lightens the mood with an exaggerated sniffle, and says in a dramatic, trembling voice, "So proud."

"Shut up," I tease, nudging him with my shoulder. "Where did Dad go?"

Emmett sighs. "Down to the Lodge. He and Mom had it out; he probably needed to let off some steam."

"Like father, like son," Rose says, and I feel Emmett's hand move from my shoulder. I look over just as he brushes her cheek with the backs of his fingers, and she leans into his touch. I like what love has done to Emmett; it makes him softer, more attentive.

"Will you tell him I said goodbye?" I ask.

"Where do you think you're going?" Emmett replies, and I can tell by the tone of his voice that it'll be hard for me to get out of the driveway without a fight.

"Home," I say. "You think I can stay here after what I just said to Mom? It'll be good for both of us to be apart for a while."

"Like hell you are," he says, and crosses his arms over his chest like his answer is final. "It's nearly eleven. Who knows what kind of people are on the road this time of night."

"People in cars are out on the road," I reply dryly.

"Smartass," Emmett says. "It's a three-hour trip. No way."

Rose reaches over and pats my knee. "For once I agree with your overbearing brother. You can stay with me tonight."

"Everyone's leaving me!" Emmett cries with exaggeration. Such a drama queen.

"Why are you leaving? It's not because of me, is it?" I ask Rose.

"Well...your mom and I kind of got into a fight, too," she says, smiling timidly.

"The woman was on a roll today." Emmett shakes his head, and takes a deep breath.

"About what?" I ask, surprised. I've never heard Rose utter anything other than a kind word to my mother.

"Girly wedding shit," Emmett mutters.

Rose playfully smacks his arm. "She wants our centerpieces to be vases full of daisies," she says with a groan.

"Ew."

"I know. I like daisies as much as the next person, but for a wedding?" Her eyebrows knit together, and even when she's frustrated, she's still beautiful; clear eyes against porcelain skin, with full, red lips. "Apparently wanting roses is on par with committing a felony in your mother's eyes."

"So, we'll be exiled with our unpopular opinions together, huh?" I say, smiling at her.

"I guess so," she replies. "At least I have good company." The way she grins at me, full of camaraderie and compassion, makes me glad Emmett found someone like her to love. She's a nice anchor for him to have while he tries to navigate our family's sea of dysfunction.

"And what about me?" Emmett asks, his bottom lip jutting out into a serious pout. "Do I have to piss someone off to get in good with you two?"

"You can take care of yourself for one night," Rose says, then leans over and kisses him on the cheek. "I saw some of that pie you go nuts for in the fridge. That'll keep you company 'til you pass out in a sugar coma."

"I can't believe I forgot about my pie!" Emmett says, smacking himself on the forehead. "I must really love the two of you," he teases with a huge smile, as he glances back toward the house, where his midnight snack waits patiently for him in the kitchen.

The next morning, after a restless night, Rose and I chat over breakfast before I get on the road back to Seattle. I check my phone countless times to see if my mother has bothered to call. She hasn't. I think about our conversation during the three-hour drive home, and it weighs heavily on my mind for the rest of the weekend.

Despite all the soul searching I do through Sunday night, I still can't find it in myself to be sorry for what I said. I drift through work for most of the week; too preoccupied with my own life to socialize or worry about anyone else's. Every day that passes without a phone call from my mother cracks my foundation; tiny, barely-visible cracks that make me feel less stable than I was before. But I'm determined not to let my newly-constructed sense of self crumble.

Thursday afternoon, I'm sitting at my desk under a mountain of paperwork, and in a really shitty mood. I promised Garrett I would make a grocery run before we leave for our camping trip tomorrow, and I still haven't had time to go. On top of that, we have a project that's supposed to be going out before five, and Edward has forgotten to enter his billable hours into the system by the deadline. He's gone out to some meeting, and I can't reach him by phone, so I spend most of my day wading through his paperwork to make sure he gets paid for all of the hours he worked. The last time he missed overtime pay, he nearly had a nervous breakdown.

Something's going on with him this week, and it's beginning to mess with _my_ work, because I've had to fix all the mistakes that he's made. He's usually not so careless, but some of the errors that I've found are glaring, and I've saved his ass so many times that I've lost count.

By 3:30, I've finally gotten my work and his straightened out, and I think I probably have ten minutes to make a dash downstairs to the cafe to get something to eat, because I haven't had a meal since last night.

I walk out into the elevator lobby on our floor, and two seconds after I press the down button, the doors open, and Edward rushes out with his arms full of paperwork. He's not paying attention, and I don't have time to get out of his way before he runs right into me, scattering everything in his arms all over the floor into a disorganized mess.

"Damn it!" Edward says, and falls to his knees to start gathering his files. Instinctively, I kneel down to help him, and I've only picked up a couple of papers, when-

"Don't you _ever_ watch where you're going?" he snaps, and I've never seen him look so angry before. His face is red, and there's a vein popping out of the side of his neck. "Put the papers down." He runs his fingers through his hair as he sits back on his heels. "You'll fuck everything up, just...leave it."

I stare at him, my face hot and my heart pumping angry blood through my veins. Maybe it's the horrible day that I've been having, or maybe it's the fact that I've saved his ass more times than he realizes. Maybe, after two months of his bullshit, I've_ finally_ had enough.

When he ran into me as he came out of that elevator, he joined all of those tiny cracks I've been fighting. Only I don't crumble the way I thought I would. I _explode_, and the bitter words that I've kept hidden come flying out of my mouth.

"You know what, Edward?" I say as I stand up, still gripping his papers tightly in my hand. "I'm so _sick_ of your attitude. You're a self-important jackass, you know that? A complete and utter dick."

Edward stares at me, unmoving. So, I continue. I'm so pissed that I don't even care if he tells Garrett; I just let all the words I've been holding back come flying out of my mouth.

"You walk around this office, and you think you're so high above everyone else. You think _I_ fuck up? Let me tell you about how _you _fuck up, Edward. The billable hours that you yammer on about, and think everyone who forgets to enter them is a big idiot? Guess what! You forgot to enter them this week, right along with your precious overtime. Who fixed it?_ I_ did."

Edward's eyes snap open, almost like he's finally realized where he is and who he was talking to. But it's too late to fix this. _Much_ too late to fix this. "Bella, I didn't-"

"No," I say, cutting him off. "_I_ get to talk now. You know how many deduction errors I caught this week? Four. Three of them were on _your_ accounts. Who fixed them? _I_ did. Who locked up all of ARO's personnel information when you left it all over your desk in your rush to get wherever it is you go everyday? _I_ did. So when you talk about fucking up, Edward, look in the mirror, because you're a fuck-up, too." I drop the papers I hold in my hands, and they flutter to the floor beside me. "You can clean up your own mess. _All_ of your messes. Because I'm _done_."

Edward is stunned by my outburst, and he sits staring at me with surprised eyes. I don't feel bad though, and I don't wait for an apology that will never come. When the elevator door opens up, I step inside.

And I don't look back.


	6. Constellation

**Chapter Six**

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_**Constellation**__: A grouping of stars that make an imaginary picture in the sky._

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I've always been good at internalizing my feelings.

Sure, there were times I would slip; a goad here, and a passive-aggressive remark there. I knew how to release just enough venom to let someone know they'd pissed me off without actually having to confront them about it. It was a tactic I'd perfected throughout twenty-four years of being my mother's daughter, and some days I think it was the only thing that helped me make it through.

The thing is, when you've let yourself be a doormat for so many years, people trail layer after layer of their dirt all over you, until there's so much that you can't even see through it. Then, you're left with two choices: you can calmly brush it off and walk away from a small mess, or you can shake it off and splatter it all over anyone who happens to be standing nearby.

With my mom, I wanted to shake, but I brushed. With Edward, I tried to brush, but I ended up shaking.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good to lay into him the way that I did. It felt _great, _really. I piled Jake's dirt on top of my mom's dirt, and then dumped Edward's all over that, until he was the one under the pile, and _I _was clean. I was right, and I was _justified_. It was good, great, wonderful. The _best_.

I stepped into that elevator, and I was shining. I was spotless, and bright.

Until I wasn't anymore. And it took all of five minutes.

See, the funny thing about being clean is that sometimes you have to leave behind a mess in order to get there. A _huge_ one.

It's amazing how quickly that mess can catch up to you.

That's why I'm standing here in the parking lot of our office building, freshly showered and in clean clothes, trying to slip out from under this icky cover of twisted-up anger, nerves, and guilt. It makes me feel slimy and disgusting. I want it off, but I can't seem to shake it. Not even the cool breeze that ruffles my hair and fills my lungs can peel it away.

I'm struggling to find a balance between passivity and rage, and I feel like I tipped the scales too far in the wrong direction with Edward yesterday. It's not fun to get snapped at, and being the one doing the snapping isn't all that great, either.

"I can't believe so many people bailed," Mike says, as he lifts a cooler into the small trailer that's hitched to the back of the van Garrett rented for our trip. Jessica's sitting on the other one he needs to move, and he taps her knee playfully so she'll get off of it. She giggles as she stands, and gives him the moon eyes, while I clamp my lips together to keep my breakfast from coming back up.

"Right?" Tyler replies, tossing his sleeping bag on top of a pile of blankets and tents. "Some team-building trip. How can we _build_ a team if we don't have enough people to _make_ a team?"

"The lame-asses who aren't coming are the ones who need the most help when it comes to learning to play well with others." Mike sighs as he plants his foot on the van's bumper to tie his shoe. "Demitri and Alec? Come on. Those two need lessons in teamwork more than any of us combined. Don't even get me started on Cullen, ditching us at the last minute like he did."

"Well, Garrett told him it was okay," Tyler says. "I didn't really want to share a tent with him anyway."

The tense knot that takes up the spot where my stomach used to be tightens at the sound of Edward's name. How is it possible to feel anger and remorse at the same time? So_ right _for what I said, but so _wrong_ for the way I said it? I twist open a bottle of water and drink in quick gulps, hoping something wet will loosen that knot and help wash away some of the shame I'm feeling for the way I acted.

"We have enough people for a water polo team," Eric Yorkie says, about two minutes too late. He's a quiet, shy guy who handles our network issues, and I'm fairly sure this is the first time I've ever heard him speak. He shifts nervously from one foot to the other as Tyler and Mike look at him, then burst out laughing.

"Here, I'll take that," I say, as I reach out for the sleeping bag that he's cradling against his chest.

Eric pushes his Coke-bottle-thick glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiles nervously at me. With his tight T-shirt and shorts that are just a smidgen too small for him, he exudes all the confidence of the nerdy kid at camp who's sure he's going to get pantsed in the middle of the mess hall.

"Thank you, Bella," he replies, and I smile.

"We have enough for a bowling team," Shelly says, squinting her eyes beneath the huge bill of her oversized baseball cap. Curly, wiry, gray hairs poke out from under each side, and when she puts her sunglasses on, she looks exactly like that crotchety old lady on the front of the Hallmark cards Emmett likes to buy for Nana on her birthday.

Tyler groans. "Here we go," he mutters, as he tucks a sleeping bag under each of his arms and throws them on top of the others.

"Me and the gals on _Dolls with Balls_ took first place in the Underdog Bowling League last year. We're down one since Mildred had her hip replacement." Shelly clamps the end of a Twizzler between her teeth, and pulls on it until it snaps. "Don't know what we're gonna do about that. Any of you kids interested in rolling with some old birds?"

"Where's Garrett?" Jessica asks, completely ignoring Shelly's question as she slams one door of the trailer shut, then the other. She brushes her hands together and leans against the bumper, stretching her legs out in front of her and crossing them at the ankles. She's wearing really short shorts, and Mike leers at her before he sits down a few feet away.

"He got a phone call and ran upstairs," Tyler replies. "He said he'd be back in a few." He tosses a volleyball up in the air, then catches it before he yells, "Hey, Yorkie," and throws the ball right at Eric.

It bounces off Eric's chest with a light thud, then rolls across the pavement. Eric ducks down and shuffles his feet in a race to get the ball before it rolls underneath a car.

"Dude, you've gotta be quicker with your hands," Tyler laughs.

"Leave him alone," Shelly says, in a weary maternal voice that sounds like she's seen her fair share of testosterone-induced teasing. "No one likes balls flying at their face."

Mike and Tyler look at each other, wide-eyed, and start cracking up like the morons that they are. I bite my lip to keep myself from laughing too, because I don't want her to think we're making fun of her, but most of all I don't want to be the one who has to explain why we're laughing.

Shelly narrows her eyes as they move from Mike to Tyler, and back again.

"What's so funny?"

When I turn to answer her, I see Garrett walking out of the back entrance to the building. Following behind him with long, lanky legs half-covered by too-big khaki shorts, and an old Dartmouth T-shirt hanging from slumped shoulders, is the one person I was hoping I wouldn't have to see until Monday.

Edward Cullen.

"Oh, _great_," Mike mutters.

Even though the sun is warm and bright against my skin, I feel like someone's just dumped ice water over me. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my heart keeps stuttering and pounding in my ears. I haven't seen Edward since our run-in yesterday, and this isn't exactly what I was expecting. I thought we'd give each other the silent treatment and share angry glares across the room on Monday. Not this.

His red, guilty eyes meet mine for a second, then shift back down to the ground. When I see the concern on Garrett's face as he looks at me, I begin to understand why Edward's acting the way that he is.

That ice-cold feeling quickly fades as the heat from my boiling blood rises all the way up to my ears and burns that icky, disgusting blanket of guilt right off my skin. What's left in its place is anger hot as the sun.

He told on me. That stick-up-his-ass golden boy freaking _told_ on me.

I can't believe I wasted sixteen hours of my life feeling guilty about piling on this guy. I wish I had more dirt, _real_ dirt, wheelbarrows _full_ of dirt that I could throw at his stupid, traitor mouth. My hands clench and unclench at my sides, fingernails digging into my palms, stinging my skin in a circuit that winds around my veins and straight into my heart. I glare at him, but he's not looking at me. _Look_ at me, you ass.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes, because I can't let him get to me. At least, I can't let him _know _that he got to me. I'll be calm. _Deep breaths_. Cool. _Loose limbs_. Collected.

"Bella," Garrett says, crooking his finger toward me as he walks past. He doesn't ask outright, but the tone of his voice and the way his eyes shift in my direction tell me that he wants me to follow. So, I do. And I'm calm. I'm cool and collected.

He comes to a stop about ten feet from the van, and I stand in front of him, where I have a full view of my coworkers. Edward's lurking at the edge of the group, as close as he can get to Garrett and me without making it obvious that he's trying to listen.

"Did I do something?" I already know the answer to the question, but I'm trying to get a feel for the situation so I can plan my rebuttal.

"No, no," he replies, smiling at me kindly. "Listen, um...I just had a talk with Edward, and I wanted to get with you before we head out to make sure that you're comfortable going on this trip with us."

"Why wouldn't I be comfortable?" Should telling Edward to fuck off have injured me in some way?

Garrett reaches up and rubs his chin with his index finger and thumb, and I can hear his whiskers scratch against his skin. "He mentioned that you two had a tiff yesterday. Now, I'm willing to overlook a few things because of personality conflict; I know not everyone is going to be best friends with each other. But...is this something I need to take care of?"

I swallow, and look over at Edward. I want to tell Garrett about all the things he needs to take care of. I want to be spiteful and immature. The _want_ nearly overwhelms me.

Garrett's eyes are gentle and patient; this is not at all the face I'd be expecting from a person who is reprimanding me. "Do I need to step in?" he asks softly.

"No," I reply, shaking my head. "I...I think the two of us just had a bad day yesterday. We lashed out at each other." There. I took responsibility for myself, and threw some of it back at Edward.

"Okay," he says skeptically. "You let me know if I need to intervene."

I'm confused by this conversation, because I feel like he should be angrier. Clearly Edward told him _something_ that implicated me, but what was it? Not that it really matters; between the two of us, I think_ I'm_ the only one who has a right to complain, and I didn't. This realization makes me even angrier, and now I know that while Edward can dish attitude out, he certainly can't take it.

"Um...sure. I will."

"All right." He smiles at me warmly as he gives my shoulder a pat, then twirls his keys around his finger and turns to the crowd. "Load up, let's go!"

I'm still trying to make sense of what just happened, so I lag behind as everyone shuffles over to the van in a haphazard line. Shelly and Tyler step in and take a seat in the back row. Jessica and Mike are next. Yorkie already hopped into the passenger seat, and if we keep this up, I'll wind up having to sit next to Edward, who's skulking somewhere behind me.

Jessica is busy blathering away, laughing at something stupid that Mike just said, so I pull on the hem of her shirt to distract her. Apparently it takes more than that to extract her from the clutches of Newton's charms, so I try another route.

"Jess," I say quietly, leaning forward as close as I can get to her ear. "Sit by me."

"What?" She kind of turns half-assedly around to look at me, but she's too distracted by Mike, or maybe she just isn't all that interested in what I'm trying to say to her.

"Sit by me," I say, in a loud, half-panicked whisper. I feel like I did back in middle school, when I would be late to the bus stop and wound up having to sit next to that tiny blonde girl who used to pick her nose all the time.

Jess doesn't pay a bit of attention to me; instead, she loads up behind Mike, and happily sits right next to him. I tilt my head back in annoyance, then reluctantly move across the seat so far that the armrest is digging into my side.

Edward slides the door shut, then plops down on the edge of the bench, looking just as miserable as I'm sure I do.

It's strange, being this close to him now. I can almost _feel_ my anger pushing against his. It's like we're a pair of magnets with our opposite poles being forced together. Repelling. Pushing. Uncomfortable.

As I squish my body against the window, and watch him stare at the floor mat underneath his shoes, I decide that I'm not going to let him ruin this trip for me. I'm not going to repel, or push, or be uncomfortable. I'm going to be myself, and I'm going to have fun; big-mouthed, tattling, stick-up-his-ass Edward be damned.

I bend over and lift my backpack up, setting it on the seat between us like a barrier. The bag makes it easier for me to turn in my seat and engage in the conversation; it makes me feel safe. Who knew a Jansport could be so powerful?

"Those coolers we put in the trailer were kind of light, Bella. Are you _sure _you brought all the stuff for s'mores?" You'd think s'mores are heroin, the way Mike's been badgering me about them all week.

"How about I throw the bag they're in into the woods when we get to the campground. Later tonight, you can do a scavenger hunt for bears with graham cracker crumbs in their fur and chocolate smeared all over their paws. _Then _you'll have your answer."

Tyler laughs. "Good one, Bella."

Mike leans forward and glances at the back of Garrett's head before he whispers, "I hollowed out the watermelon and poured the vodka in there for later. Providing us with some snacks is the least you can do, Bella."

Jessica giggles, and I roll my eyes at her. "I brought plenty. And I don't like them, so you can have my share."

Mike narrows his eyes at me as he leans back against his seat. "How can you not like s'mores? That's like telling people you hate hot dogs and hamburgers," he says incredulously.

"I _do_ hate hot dogs and hamburgers."

Mike and Tyler both look at me like a couple of slack-jawed idiots, while Jessica pinches her lips between her index finger and thumb, then smiles out the window.

"You two are too easy," I laugh. "I just don't like marshmallows."

I turn in my seat and hitch my leg up to rest beside my bag, but accidentally knock it over. Edward reaches out to grab it at the same time I do, and our fingers bump together. He pulls away as if I've burned him, as if touching me is at the very top of the list of things he'd least like to do.

His repulsion makes my face grow hot. Ass.

"I love marshmallows," Shelly says, rubbing her hands together excitedly. "I eat 'em right out of the Lucky Charms box, and throw the cereal away."

"Those aren't marshmallows," I counter. "They're tiny nuggets of artificial color and flavoring."

"Well, they're _delicious_ tiny nuggets of artificial color and flavoring."

"They must be all right for you, since Shelly's still kicking," Tyler says. He nudges her shoulder and she swats at him with a folded-up magazine that she's been reading.

"How do you think I got these?" she asks, flexing her right arm.

Tyler whistles, then reaches over and squeezes the tiny muscle through Shelly's thin, paper-like skin. "Newton's got nothing on you."

"I can throw a strike better than all seven of ya put together," Shelly says, with a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

Mike rolls his eyes, and Jessica comes to the rescue.

"I like deep fried Twinkies," she says, breaking the silence. "The Puyallup State Fair has a stand that sells them. They're awesome."

"Twinkies? Nah, frosted donuts with sprinkles on them are the way to go," I explain. I consider telling them why, but when I catch Edward giving me the side-eye, I decide against it. "They're my favorite thing. I can't resist 'em."

Apparently Eric can't resist chiming in. "I went to a carnival once that served hamburgers with donuts used as buns. Not the sprinkled ones. Just regular."

"Gross," replies Tyler.

The rest of our ride is filled with disgusting food stories, and by the time I step out onto the pavement that makes up the campground's parking lot, I'm not really sure if I ever want to eat again.

We all take turns walking the contents of the van and the trailer to our campsite, and once we've got everything laid out where it should be, we break up into small groups and begin to assemble our tents. I've been camping with Dad and Emmett more times than I can count, so I have ours up in no time.

Garrett and Mike are a bit slower, so I walk over to see if I can give them a hand.

"You're quick," Garrett says, looking at our tent, impressed. "Good work."

"My dad and brother used to take me camping all the time, so it's old hat for me." If I felt any residual awkwardness from our talk earlier, Garrett's praise helps wash a little bit of it away. He must not be too upset at what happened between me and Edward.

"Edward and company seem to be having some trouble with theirs," Garrett says, pointing over to where the three of them stand, huddled around a heaping mess of rods and nylon. "Maybe you could go help?"

This is a team-building weekend, so _of course_ he'd want to get the two of us working together.

"Okay," I reply, schooling my voice so I don't sound like I don't want to help them, even though I'd really rather have my fingers stapled together.

I slowly walk over, hoping that they'll magically figure things out before I get there. Of course, they don't.

"You're doing that wrong," I say, as I watch Tyler bang hopelessly on a stake with a rubber mallet. He doesn't even have the tent put together yet, and he's already trying to anchor it to the ground.

"What would you know about it?" He looks up at me from where he kneels on the ground, then wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Edward doesn't even acknowledge my presence; he just sits there with the directions spread out across his lap, avoiding me.

"Well," I reply curtly, pointing back at our already-assembled tent, "there's that."

Tyler whistles under his breath, and mutters a quiet, "Damn."

"Here," I say, kneeling down beside him. "You need to spread the tent out flat." I grab one end as Eric pulls the other tight, until the tent is laid out like a blanket in front of us. "Take that pole and lay it across this way, then lay the other this way, so they make a giant 'X'."

Edward puts down the instructions, then kneels on a mat next to the tent.

"See these flaps?" I point to the blue channels on either side of the tent. "You slip the poles through here, and then once they're in, you stick the ends in this plastic foot so the tent stays upright."

Tyler watches me intently, and once I have the pole threaded through the channel, he goes to work on his side. In about five minutes, he, Eric, and Edward have formed a little dome.

"Tie this string across the top so the poles don't slip," I say to Tyler, since he's taller than I am. "Then hammer the stakes into these little loops on the edges."

Edward folds the directions and stuffs them into his pack, then he takes a mallet and starts pounding the stake into the ground, avoiding my eyes all the while. Tyler busies himself with getting the sleeping bags set up inside, so I stand and brush the dirt off of my pants with the palms of my hands. I turn to walk away when-

"Bella?" Edward says tentatively, so quietly that I almost don't hear him.

I turn, and he's rubbing the back of his neck, looking at the ground before his eyes meet mine. He smiles a little bit, and he almost looks pained. "Thank you."

I bite my lip before I answer to hold back the angry words that are so eager to come out. "You're welcome."

I walk back over to my tent, where Jessica is lounging on a lawn chair, ogling Mike as he makes sure all of our food is packed and protected from raccoons. It's interesting watching the two of them interact outside of work. And by interesting, I mean borderline gross.

"Mike sure knows how to pitch a tent, huh?" Jessica says, wiggling her eyebrows.

I really wish I didn't know about their little secret.

"I don't even want to think about Mike's tent." I reach over her to pick my sleeping bag up off the ground, and close my eyes to shake off that unfortunate visual.

"And you had to help Edward pitch_ his _tent." She's got one hand up on her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun, and she laughs this laugh that makes me want to stuff her into one of the coolers and roll it down a hill. "He's acting weirder than usual today."

"Will you shut up about tents? Look, he's probably just pissed off about something; like the way the sun is shining, or that water is wet. Besides, I'm not his favorite person. I think we all know that."

"I don't think he has a favorite person, Bella," she replies with a sly grin. "But he sure does seem to look at you a lot."

I roll my eyes. "When people like Edward start looking at you, it's because they're trying to put nefarious ideas into play. They're planning to spit in your drink or trip you when no one's looking." Or rat you out to your boss. "It's not a good thing."

"If you say so," she sings. Is that cooler empty? I bet she'd fit in there if it is. There's a hill around here somewhere, I know it.

"And don't even think about sneaking Mike into our tent tonight," I warn, desperate to change the subject. "I'm sticking Shelly in between us, so if you trip and fall when you're trying to climb out, be prepared for everyone to know about it."

She sits up and rests her chin on her hand, a disappointed pout forming on her lips. "Like we would do that here. You're the only one who knows," she whispers. "Besides, he drew straws to shack up with Garrett. He'll be too busy brown-nosing to care about anything else."

"Sucks for you," I say, not really feeling sorry for her at all. I wonder if Edward drew straws, too. Maybe he's extra pissy because he was denied the opportunity to be head brown-noser for the night.

"Yeah."

Jessica keeps talking, but I'm distracted by a little girl about two campsites over, squealing and laughing at the top of her lungs. Her brother is lifting her up so she can see over a volleyball net, and their mother stands on the other side, gently serving the ball so that her daughter has a chance to hit it. Their smiling, laughing faces remind me of the summers Mom, Dad, Emmett, and I would spend down at the lake, covered in swimsuits, and sunblock, and love.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, to check and see if my mother has called. Deep down inside me, I know she hasn't, but I still have that stupid, sickening hope. When I see that I have no missed calls or messages, my stomach sinks, heavy with disappointment. This feeling reminds me of when I was a kid, when the school year just started, so close to my birthday. Every day I'd run from the bus stop straight to our mailbox, hoping to find a big, bright greeting card addressed to me. When I'd open the squeaky black door and see endless stacks of bills, I'd shuffle up the porch steps and let my backpack sink slowly to the ground.

I guess some things will never change, no matter how old I get. It's just that I'm checking a different kind of mailbox now.

I take a deep breath and toss my phone in my purse, then walk over to the van and bury it beneath one of the seats. If I keep it around, I'll just keep checking it, and getting disappointed. I don't want disappointment, and I don't want to spend the next day and a half thinking about my mother, our fight, or anything that's waiting for me in Forks.

I want to think about hiking, and tide pools, and the way the stars glow against the ink-black sky once the sun goes down.

"Okay," Garrett says, walking into the middle of the semicircle that our tents form in the soft, green, campground grass. "Bella was nice enough to pack lunches for all of us. There's a meadow up this trail a little ways, so we're gonna hike up there and eat. Sound good?"

"How far is 'a little ways'?" Shelly asks.

"It's less than a ten-minute walk," Garrett replies, as he squeezes her shoulder

Tyler walks up next to the two of them and slings his arm around Shelly. "Don't worry, Cope. If your legs give out, you can hop on my back and I'll carry you up."

Shelly smacks him in the stomach and grins. "I wasn't worried about myself, kid. I've raised four boys, and lived through more wars than you care to know about. I could piggyback you _and_ Newton up that hill if I had to."

Garrett laughs as he slings his pack over his shoulder, and grabs the basket that holds all of our food. He walks to the edge of the forest and waves us over. "C'mon."

We follow the narrow trail in a single file line, over tree roots and footbridges that arc across fresh streams. I'm a bit clumsy when I hike, and I don't want to slow anyone down, so I gravitate toward the end of the line. The only person behind me is Edward, and even though we're a little bit off pace of the rest of the group, he doesn't seem to mind all that much. In a way I kind of hope I fall, so I can have an excuse to knock him over.

I shake my head to get rid of those thoughts, because they're so petty. I don't want to be the petty girl who trips people on nature trails.

"Just about twenty more yards," Garrett finally says, turning back to shout at us like he's leading a gaggle of ducklings.

When we enter the clearing, we follow him to the center of the field, where Jessica and Tyler spread out a huge quilt that looks like it was patched together from different types of clothing. Everyone grabs a bag out of the basket, and I sit down next to Shelly. For a split second I think that Edward is going to sit next to me, but he decides otherwise and walks around the edges of the blanket to the empty spot directly opposite me.

We unwrap our food, and apart from the rustle of paper and plastic, it's quiet while we begin to eat.

"God, this is good," Mike says, licking the tip of the spoon as he holds up a small container of potato salad. "Did you make this yourself, Bella?"

"Mmm-hmm," I hum through a mouthful of ham and cheese.

We sit and eat and chat as I avoid looking anywhere near Edward's vicinity. We're nearly finished when Mike presses Garrett for details about what exactly we're going to be doing for the rest of the day.

"So, we're working with a skeleton crew here. What's the plan? Trust falls? Feel-good corporate anecdotes?"

"We'll do some trust falls later, just for you," Garrett says, laughing. "As for the 'feel-good corporate anecdotes,' well-"

"Those come when we pop open the watermelon." Tyler slaps Mike's shoulder, and Mike just glares at him. I'm pretty sure that Mike thinks Garrett is stupid, and thought the watermelons were, well, just watermelons.

"Well, you certainly smuggled enough liquor to make that happen," says Garrett. He looks at Mike's shocked face, and shakes his head. "You guys act like I was never young before. Now, let's get this show on the road."

Garrett stands up, and pulls a few small pieces of paper out of his pocket. Then, he takes off his baseball cap, and puts them inside.

"Bella, Tyler, and Mike, I want each of you to pick a name out of this hat. You'll ask the person whose name you draw a few questions, and then you'll introduce them to the rest of the group. I'm looking for conversation starters; quirks and idiosyncrasies that you're willing to share with each other."

"Ugh," Mike groans under his breath. "We did this in high school."

"Where do you think I got the idea?"

Garrett shakes his hat in front of Tyler first, and Tyler does a lame little fist pump when he picks Shelly's name. "You're with me, girl," he says.

She scootches over next to him on the blanket, and they start chattering away.

Mike draws Eric.

Jessica draws Garrett.

Everyone moves into their own little groups, and Edward looks tentative as he crosses his legs in front of me. "I can ask someone if they'll switch," he offers. Ah, so he's been catching that pissed-off vibe I've been throwing in his direction all morning. Good.

"You can find someone to switch if you want to," I say nonchalantly, looking down at my hands. I won't give him the satisfaction of refusing to work with him.

"Is that what you want me to do?" His words are so gentle that I almost don't recognize the person sitting in front of me, even though he looks a hell of a lot like Edward.

"If you want to," I say again. "I know you don't like me, Edward. If you want to work with someone else, then that's fine with me."

"You think I don't like you?" He seems genuinely surprised by this revelation.

"I _know_ you don't like me. I only thought so before, but after you berated me yesterday, and then complained about me to Garrett, it's kind of clear now."

"What?" he says disbelievingly. "I didn't complain about you to Garrett."

I narrow my eyes at him, and even though he looks confused, I don't believe him. "Yeah, okay. So, he just came up to me before we left and told me that you had a talk with him this morning out of nowhere, right? He just happened to know about our fight. Sure, Edward. Whatever you say."

"I did have a talk with him this morning, but it was about me, not you. I mentioned what happened yesterday, but only about how_ I_ acted."

I'm so stunned that one of those little seeds from a dandelion could float through the air and knock me over. What he's telling me doesn't make sense, and I feel like someone stuck me in a snow globe and turned me upside down. "Really?"

"Yeah. Why would you think I told on you?" He sounds so curious, like I'm the most ridiculous person on the world for even thinking such a thing.

"Well, why would I think that you didn't? I've known you for two months, and you've been nice to me about twenty percent of the time. I'm not the accountant, so you do the math." Who is this person calmly standing up for herself? Being snarky without throwing dirt? I like her. I want to give her a frosted donut with sprinkles on top.

"Twenty percent?" His voice is unbelieving, like I've just told him that the calculator was a figment of his imagination. He fiddles with the toe of his worn-out sneaker, fraying an already frayed edge.

"_If _that."

"Bella, I didn't realize it was you when I stepped out of the elevator. If I had, I never would've said those things."

"It shouldn't have mattered who I was, Edward. It wouldn't have been any better if you'd said that to Jess or Mike."

"I know that." He bends his legs to rest his elbows on his knees, then rubs his face with his hands. He looks like he wants to sink deep into the ground until it covers him up.

"Edward, look. I don't-"

"All right, time's up," Garrett shouts. "Who wants to go first?"

Edward's eyes snap up to mine, and he looks as panicked as I feel.

"Shit. Oh, shit, shit, shit," I say.

"Uh, quick," he replies in a whisper. His hands are flopping around like he's trying to wave me through traffic. "Hurry, tell me something about yourself."

"Um..." I hate grapes. I don't like wearing socks. I put chalk in my fifth grade teacher's tea. "Uh..." I wrecked my mother's car when I was sixteen and blamed it on a deer. I love the ocean. God, I sound like such a loser. "I uh...I'm terrified of Abraham Lincoln," I blurt out. Ugh, I don't sound like a loser, I _am_ a loser. A sixteenth-President-fearing, Ford's Theater-loving loser.

Edward laughs, and scrunches his nose. "Like..._Abraham Lincoln _Abraham Lincoln? The President?"

Shelly just said something that made everyone groan, and we really need to hurry, hurry, hurry the hell up. My knees are bouncing from adrenaline, and I want to reach over and shake Edward so he feels it, too. It's like I'm trying to finish one last math problem on a test before the teacher tells us to pass 'em forward.

"No, the janitor who cleans the men's room at work," I reply sarcastically. "Of course I'm talking about the President." I feel bad for being a smartass, because it's not every day some random girl you work with admits something like that to you, but come _on_.

"Edward, Bella?" Garrett says.

Edward looks at me, and I clamp my eyes shut and shake my head. "No, don't tell them I said that," I whisper.

"Um...we, uh...we didn't really get that far," he admits.

"Is everything okay?" Garrett asks, looking at me, not Edward. Knowing what I know now, the way he acted at the van makes sense. And the way he's looking at me now, like he's waiting for me to give the okay for him to swoop in, makes sense, too.

"Yeah," I say lightly. "We just lost track of time. Maybe we need a feel-good corporate anecdote about clock management."

Garrett laughs. "I can arrange that."

"I'll take Mike's turn during the trust falls to make up for it," I say.

"Sweeeet," Mike says, pumping his fist.

When Garrett turns around, I nudge Edward's knee. I mouth a quick 'thank you,' and he replies with a shrug. And then the tiniest, _tiniest_ smile creeps across his lips.

A few trust falls, volleyball games, and nature hikes later, we're sitting around a campfire, all bundled-up in sweats. Mike and Tyler are steadily taking pulls from small clear cups filled with pinkish liquor. Jessica sits beside them, stabbing fluffy marshmallows with metal skewers that Garrett brought along. She turns and turns the skewer until the marshmallows are black and flaming, then nibbles on the charred pieces, bit by bit.

Garrett and Eric are off a ways from the group, talking about bandwidth and server loads, along with other techie terms that float in one of my ears and right out the other. Between the crackling of the fire and the soft, wet sounds of the water as it ripples against the shore, I'm too relaxed to pay attention to their conversation.

Jessica impales another marshmallow on her skewer sword, and lowers it into the fire.

"If you don't flip that over Jess, you're going to burn it," Tyler says. His voice has an undercurrent of giddiness to it, like he's bound to start laughing at any second.

"I'm not going to burn it!" Jessica says, swatting Tyler's hand away from the stick she's holding over the fire.

"Yes you are! The marshmallow's smoking!"

"I like it like that!" she cries, bringing the small flame up to her lips to blow out.

"Will you make me a s'more?" Mike asks, his slurred words sweet as honey.

Jessica purses her lips together and gives him a stern look, but even the family two sites over knows she's going to make him one. Maybe three or four. I think she'd probably give up her favorite burned marshmallows if he asked her to.

I stand up, and walk over to one of the pieces of driftwood that lines the shore. The way the moonlight reflects off the water makes it look like a dream, and I want to get as close to it as I can. I sit down on the lumber—cool through my cotton pants—and I stretch my legs out in front of me.

It's so quiet and clean and lovely out here; the kind of place that could make you forget about almost anything that troubles you. All I think about is how the water sounds as it melts into the sand, and the rustling of the wind through the leaves; the most peaceful kind of white noise. Then there's the soft, loping rhythm of footsteps-

"Do you mind if I sit here?"

The orange glow from the fire lights one side of Edward's face, casting the other in shadow. He seems really nervous and unsure of himself, and a small part of me wants to make him confident and sure, but I'm wary because I've been burned by him before.

"No."

He sits down a few feet from me, on the very end of the driftwood.

"It's nice out here," he says, bending over to pick up an old tree limb.

"Yep."

Edward starts dragging the end of the limb through the sand, zigging and zagging in all these small patterns that look alien and out of place here.

I feel like I should try to converse with the guy, but I'm not sure what to say. It seemed like we thawed earlier, but here in the night, without the warm sunshine, we're all frozen again. It's chilly between us, and I don't know how to make it right.

"Do you not feel like talking? I can go, if you want to be alone." With our backs turned to the fire, the moonlight bathes him in this soft, bluish light that makes him look much younger than he is. And sad. So very, very sad. Which Edward am I looking at? The one with the smile that slips, who can laugh and be pleasant, or the one who snaps?

"No, you're fine. I'm just..."

"You're just what?"

I know my answer is the make or break for us. It's the point where we either air everything out and become civil to each other, or we retreat back into our opposite corners until the announcer signals that it's time for the next round. It's up to me to decide.

"You can say it." Edward's voice is quiet, and he puts his elbow on his knee and props his head on his hand while he waits for my reply.

"I'm just trying to figure out who it is I'm talking to, that's all." I clasp my hands together inside the front pocket of my sweatshirt, and bend forward to try to warm them.

"What do you mean?"

"You can be nice, but you turn on a dime, Edward. Your mood swings could give a person whiplash. I never know where I stand with you, and it's hard, you know?"

He sighs, and plants his hands on the wood before he lets his head fall back to look at the sky. "I know you might find this hard to believe, Bella. But...despite the way I've acted, I'm not an asshole."

I do find it hard to believe, but I don't tell him that.

"I'm just...I'm trying to find my way, and...well, I let stress get to me. It came at me all of a sudden, and I'm not the best at handling it. I'm sorry that you caught the brunt of it. I don't mean to use that as an excuse, but I really am sorry. For everything."

I think he's sincere. He _sounds_ sincere. He's all remorseful, tired eyes and friendly smiles, and pretty apologies that make me wish those things were enough to wash away everything that's happened between us.

"Thank you for the apology," I say.

"I felt like you should know that."

"I appreciate you telling me," I reply. I really don't know what else to say to him.

"I'd like to see if I can find that guy again. The non-asshole, non-moody one who doesn't give you whiplash. I want to try," he says.

I'm not sure what he's getting at. Is he asking me for a second chance? Is he just telling me that he wants to figure out who he is? I know all too well what it's like to feel like you've gone missing, like the person you're looking at in the mirror every morning is someone you don't even recognize.

"I think I met him a few times," I tease. "The non-asshole, non-moody guy. He seemed nice."

Edward smiles at me, as a small laugh escapes his lips. "Yeah."

"I feel like I owe you an apology, too."

"What for?"

"The things I said. I was so nasty-"

"I deserved it."

"Maybe you did," I say. "But that doesn't make it right."

Edward nods, and picks up that old tree limb again. He presses the tip of his shoe into the sand to erase his other doodles, then starts over; with circles instead of zigzags this time. I'm trying to think of something to say, then-

"So, this Abraham Lincoln thing..."

I laugh, and bury my face in my hands. "I wish I hadn't told you about that."

"Oh," he says, sounding disappointed. "Well, just forget I brought it up, then."

"No, it's not like that," I reply, laughing. "I'm fully aware of how ridiculous it sounds, and I feel like maybe you're judging me now. No one outside of my family and my first grade class at Forks Elementary School knows about it, so..."

"How did that happen? Abe seems like an innocuous guy."

"Abe? Are you two on a first name basis?"

"We go way back," Edward replies, smiling.

"Well, when I was six, my parents took my brother and me to Disney World, and we went to see the Hall of Presidents. Abraham Lincoln stood up, and started talking. Everything was fine. Then his head dipped, and his voice got real deep and slow. Then he like...he just kind of fell over. I guess I didn't realize that animatronics weren't real people or something."

"An easy mistake to make," Edward says. Smartass.

"Hey, I couldn't even tell time, man. What do you expect?"

Edward laughs, and waves his hand at me. "Go on."

I narrow my eyes at him, then continue. "Anyway, when we got home, Emmett started learning about him in school. He found this picture of Abe wielding an axe in his history book. Emmett showed it to me, and made up this long, convoluted story about how our President was known by the good people of Illinois as the Springfield Slasher."

"The Springfield Slasher?" he asks, confused.

"Yeah," I say, laughing. "Em convinced me he was an axe murderer."

Edward turns his head in an attempt to be polite, but I can tell he's laughing at me.

"I can hear you, you know." I try to sound stern and offended, but it's no use.

"Sorry, but...you believed him?"

"He's my big brother. I believed everything he told me."

"And you're how old now?"

"Twenty-four. But it's been ingrained in my mind that he's a scary, scary man, Edward. As if the slasher story wasn't bad enough, Emmett stole one of our grandfather's old top hats, and sometimes he'd sneak into my room wearing it. He'd hold a flashlight under his chin so his face was lit up all creepy, and then he'd read his version of The Gettysburg Address."

Edward isn't even trying to hide his laughter now, and I kind of want to smack him.

"Four score and seven years ago, I brought forth, upon this continent, my favorite axe..."

"Oh my God, he used to say it just like that. Stop, you're going to keep me up all night with this," I say. "I already feel kind of gross about it."

"A lifetime of fear because of one tiny joke," Edward says, shaking his head.

"It's not so tiny when it's you, buddy. Besides, the dude had a beard but no mustache. That's more than a little bit weird."

Edward laughs, and runs his hands through his hair. His _empty_ hands.

"_You're_ weird."

"So what?" I shrug. I've been called worse.

"Yeah. So what," he replies, like it really doesn't matter.

"You're disconnected," I say, nodding toward his hands.

"What?"

"Your best friend, the BlackBerry. Did you have it surgically removed?"

"Oh," he says quietly, looking down at his palms, like this is the first time he's noticed that it's not there. "Someone told me it might be good to disconnect for a while."

I wonder who this someone is, but I don't ask. If their advice leads to a happier Edward, then that leads to a happier work environment for me, so I like whoever this person is already. "It seems like maybe that was good advice."

Edward smiles sadly. "Yeah, it's hard to enjoy yourself when you're checking your phone for missed calls every five minutes."

"_So_ much you need to keep tabs on at eleven PM on a Friday night," I say sarcastically.

Edward looks like he's going to say something, but he doesn't, so I take the chance to keep the silence from creeping in.

"The sky is so beautiful out here. The stars...I never really take time to look at them anymore."

They're so clear and bright against the dark night sky, like someone poked tiny holes through black construction paper and held it up to the sun. I love the way some are smaller than others, while some twinkle and others don't. Sitting out here reminds me of being a child, of the wonder of everything that was out there, just waiting to be explored. I thought I would discover a new planet, or be the first woman to walk on the moon. There were so many possibilities, so many exciting things. Now I'm just a glorified secretary. I wonder what my six-year-old self would think about that?

"I had a telescope outside my room when I was a kid. I looked at them all the time," Edward says, gazing up at the sky. "I had star maps and everything."

"My brother and I were a little lower tech," I say, turning my head to look at Edward. The edges of his mouth are tilted upward. It's not a smile, but it's peaceful. Serene. The look suits him.

"He won this cheap pullout telescope at a carnival, and we'd sneak out of my bedroom window at night and sit on the eave, looking at this star map that came on the back of a cereal box."

"Did you ever find anything?"

"I managed to find The Big Dipper once. Emmett found out that he could see into Angela Weber's bedroom window as long as he craned his neck just right."

Edward laughs, and I'm surprised at how easy this conversation is. There's no snapping, no change in mood. Edward's steady, and I'm starting to think he might have been telling me the truth earlier. Maybe there really _is_ a nice guy in there somewhere.

"Do you know a lot about constellations?" he asks.

"I used to, but it's kind of left me as I've gotten older. Why, do you?"

Edward's eyes widen, and he inhales deeply. "Yeah. It's this nerdy little hobby I used to have. The stuff I know is only useful for people who work in planetariums or plan on being a contestant on Jeopardy."

I laugh, because I can _so_ see Edward taking Astronomy for eight-hundred please, Alex.

"The sky isn't dark enough to see it now," he says, pointing somewhere over the tree line on the opposite shore. "But there's this constellation in The Milky Way called Cygnus. Have you ever heard of it?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Cygnus. The swan."

"Really?" I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.

"Yeah," Edward says, sliding across the driftwood to move closer to me. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, and he's got this bright, excited look on his face; that look people get when they love what they're talking about. That look makes me want to know more about astronomy, _and _more about this constellation.

"Tell me about it," I say, turning my body toward his.

"There's quite a bit of mythology surrounding it, but I like the myth where Phaeton, the son of Helios, god of the sun, drove his father's chariot across the sky. Helios gave him advice on how to drive the chariot, but he didn't listen, lost control, and fell into a river. After he disappeared, his friend Cygnus kept jumping into the water to save him, even though he was reckless, and probably didn't deserve it."

Edward's words are full of more than swans and myths and constellations, and I feel him watching me, studying me, gauging my reaction to his allusion.

"Maybe he should've stopped being so reckless," I say.

Edward lets out a small laugh, and he knows I understand. "Definitely."

"Did you make that up, or is that really a myth?"

"You know," he says, as his lips slowly spread into a grin. "There's this thing on the internet called Google. You should look it up sometime." He laughs a laugh that rumbles through his chest and carries across the water; one that makes me laugh, too.

"Throwing my stupid jokes back at me, are ya?"

"Maybe," he replies. "You know, I looked up that hairspray trick you used on my shirt. Did you know you can use it to fix ripped wallpaper?"

"Really?"

"No," he laughs. "I made that up."

"Jerk," I say, playfully swatting his shoulder.

The clouds roll across the sky, cutting through the moonlight as we talk and tease and laugh. This Edward is new, and different. Likable. I don't know if he'll still be around come Monday morning, but if he isn't, at least I'll know that I tried. Then again, maybe this is just a small step, and maybe he's here to stay.

I'm having such a good time that I can't really be bothered worrying about any of that tonight. So I don't.

Instead, Edward and I talk about a little bit of nothing until Garrett puts the campfire out, and everyone retreats into their tents. When we say goodnight, a bright, friendly smile pulls at Edward's lips, and I do the most natural thing.

I smile back.


	7. Nova

**Chapter Seven**

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_**Nova: **__A star that flares up to several times its original brightness for some time before returning to its original state._

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Back when the only bill I had to pay was my Girl Scout membership dues, and my full-time job was serving as Treasurer for the Forks Elementary School Student Council, I had a standing Saturday night date.

With my father.

In those days, my mom had a schedule like clockwork: fix dinner, wash dishes, prod me and Emmett to take our baths and brush our teeth, then she'd lie in bed and read for exactly one hour, and turn the lights out promptly at ten. Within thirty minutes, she'd be making noises that sounded like a buzz saw was ripping through her sinuses, and that was our cue. We'd sneak down the stairs with feather-light steps, always careful to avoid the squeaky one, which was third from the bottom.

Dad would sit on our old, ugly sofa, arms stretched wide across the back, waiting for us with a huge bowl of popcorn sitting on his lap. We'd pad across the floor, fast as we dared, then Emmett would tuck himself under Dad's right arm, while I took my favorite spot under his left.

He'd always have a movie cued up in the VCR and ready to go; one he'd plucked from the shelf full of tapes next to the television. You could always tell which ones were his favorites, because the adhesive on the white labels that identified them had usually worn off, making the edges curl like an old piece of parchment.

Saturday nights were reserved for Dad's favorites.

We'd usually watch some cop flick full of explosions, danger, and covert operations. Dad would cheer when the hero was wrapped up in the action, and fumble with the remote control to fast forward when he was wrapped up in the sheets. Even when I thought the movie was boring and sleep pulled at my eyelids, heavy as an anvil, I stayed awake just to spend time with my father.

He would explain the nuances of police work to my brother and me, while he sipped beer and talked to the television like it was his third child. His wayward, idiotic third child.

"Don't shoot him! He's on your side, you dipshit," he'd say in a loud whisper, and then Emmett would look over at me, and we'd choke back giggles over his filthy mouth. Each bad word meant Dad would have to make a dollar deposit into The First National Bank of The Curse Jar. Em and I used to split the bounty, until our parents wised up to the fact that we'd purposely try to make them slip.

The three of us would sit there with the reds and blues from emergency lights, and the fiery oranges of climactic explosions flashing across our sleepy faces. Near the end, Dad would scoot forward to the edge of his seat, completely wrapped up in the movie, while Emmett and I sat completely wrapped up in him. We laughed when he laughed, flinched when he flinched, and shared his anger with our fictional friends on the television screen.

Of course, in those days, when Emmett and I would wake up with the muted light of early morning opening our eyes, we scrambled out of our father's arms with all the grace of a couple of fleeing convicts being chased by a searchlight. We never noticed that the popcorn bowl was washed and drying by the sink, or that our bodies were still warm from the patchwork quilt that Mom wrapped herself with on cold, drafty winter nights.

We were too busy trying to keep our secret to realize that it wasn't really a secret at all.

It didn't occur to me until much later, when I was older and couldn't wait to leave Forks, that my dad lived vicariously through those movies. He soaked up the camaraderie and excitement that was missing from his work life in our tiny, sleepy little town. I think some piece of him longed to be part of something bigger and more adventurous than busting men trudging through the woods on expired hunting permits, and dragging the local drunk out of the Lodge when he was nearly floating away on a sea of over-consumption.

Our movie nights were a tiny bit of escapism for him, the small-town cop who never found the Starsky to his Hutch. While his life may not have seemed so exciting to him, when my mother kissed him goodbye every morning, she very rarely had to wonder if that would be the last time. So, he took his covert ops where he could get them: sneaking downstairs to bond with us over films, stealing an hour or two away for himself when he headed over to the Res to hang with his friends after telling Mom he had to work late, or calling his disgraced daughter from the police station at the end of his shift.

"It's kind of late, Dad. Does Mom have the home line tapped or something?" I tease, cradling the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I unpack the bag I took on the camping trip.

I can hear Dad laughing through the receiver before he answers.

"Your mother lacks the technical knowhow to be able to properly tap a phone line, Bells."

"It's nice to know that's the only thing stopping her," I reply dryly. I shake my head, because I haven't talked to my father in a week, and I don't want this conversation to be nasty. Or about my mother.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to call," he says quietly. "I thought it would be good to give you some space."

I wonder if he gave me this 'space' so I could cool down, or if he needed time to formulate some kind of argument that will get me to attempt to patch things up with my mother. I'm sure this is a peacekeeping call. After all, my father _is_ Switzerland.

"It's okay, Dad," I say lightly, just to let him know that I'm not upset. "How's everything going?"

"Good, good," he says. Dad's always been a man of many words. "How are things with you?"

"Not too bad." _Despite the fact that your wife is suffocating me while she tries to run my life,_ I want to say_. _"I just got back from a camping trip."

"You voluntarily went camping?" he asks, laughing. "Were you bribed or something?"

"Funny, Dad. It was this group thing for work," I explain, tossing my wrinkled clothes into the hamper in my closet. "It was supposed to help all of us bond."

"Did ya wake up with all your clothes tied together and hanging from a tree?"

"No," I say forcefully. I feel my blood start to boil beneath my skin, just like it did all those years ago, when Emmett stood laughing at me as I used a stick to try to coax my clothes off of the branch only he was tall enough to reach. Dad had to help me untie all of Emmett's Boy Scout knots. "Unfortunately, that experience didn't come in handy this weekend, but all the hours I spent camping sure did."

"Why's that?"

"I got our tent set up in about two minutes, and wound up having to help some of the guys with theirs," I say, trying to suppress my smile.

"That's my girl." His words are laced with pride, and they make me stand taller. "So...this bonding trip...did you bond?"

I think about the last egg that Edward gave up this morning so that I could have it for breakfast, and the pleasant conversation we had this afternoon that was as short as the van ride from the campsite back to the office. I smile when I think of the way he looked _at_ me—not through me or around me—when he said goodbye with warm words that melted away the dread I usually felt about Monday mornings.

"Yeah," I reply, grinning. "I think I did."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. Good."

I have to laugh, because I think my father says 'good' more than anyone on the planet. If 'good' were another word for 'beer,' he could probably coast through life having to use only one or two sentences, and maybe a grunt here and there. I love the man to death, but he needs to expand his vocabulary. I should probably look into giving him some word of the day toilet paper for his birthday.

"Things with you are okay?" I want to ask about Mom, to know how she's doing, but I know that if I let those words leave my mouth, they'll come back to haunt me.

"I'm doing all right. Finishing up my paperwork for the night before I go home. I've been late every night this week, and..." He's talking in this strange cadence, like he's reading through a script, just waiting to get to the good part.

"Oh. Did someone go on a crime spree?"

"No."

I can feel what's coming next, like Dad's pushing guilt across miles and miles of telephone wires, and it's radiating from the receiver. It makes my hand shake, and my heart starts beating this frantic rhythm, trying to persuade me to end the call before it's too late. I don't want to be mad at him, too; I only have enough energy to fight with my mother right now.

"Remember that time those kids from Port Angeles went around town rearranging the Christmas decorations people had out on their lawns-"

"Bells-"

"-and Mrs. Jackson called the station to complain because they-"

"Bella-"

"-had Rudolph sticking his antlers up Frosty's-"

"Bella."

I don't answer, because I already know what he's going to say. The only mystery is which words he's going to use to say it.

"Look, I've been thinking about this a lot, kid, and life's too short to waste it fighting. I know your mom can be a bit much; I mean, I've lived with her for nearly twenty-five years. I was pissed at her last week too, and I had to go to the Lodge to clear my head. But, you know, she _means_ well, she just has a lousy way of showing it. I think if you gave her a call to bury the hatchet, she-"

"No," I interrupt. My voice is firm, and it sounds like a woman taking a stand for herself, not some teenager wrapped up in rebellion.

"Bells," he sighs, but no words follow. He sounds beaten-down and weary, and how could he not be? Can you take a side against your daughter? Your wife? He knows her better than I do, and I know myself better than either one of them, and that always leaves us in the same place: my mom on one side, me on the other, and my dad in the middle, being stretched into oblivion. This time, I don't want to pull him; I want to relieve him of this burden. So, I let go.

"This has to stop, Dad. All my life I've been trying to make her happy, and I never get it right. And, you know, what about me? Shouldn't my life be _mine_? I know she loves me, but how far do I let this go? She tries to control my job, and my relationships. Then what? Who I marry? Where I live? The clothes I wear? The food I eat? It has to stop.

"I don't want you in the middle of this trying to fix it. It's not a squeaky door or a creaking floorboard that you can just get your toolbox and take care of. Be her husband, and be my dad, but just...just stay out of this. Please."

Dad sighs, and I know he doesn't really have a rebuttal for me. It was kind of a halfhearted plea to begin with. I wonder if Mom put him up to it, or if he just felt obligated to say something.

"You two always did know how to push each other's buttons. I think if you just _listened _to each other, you could fix this."

"But Dad, don't you see? It's always me doing the listening. Listening to Mom about where I should go to college. Listening to Mom about what I should major in. Listening to Mom about which neighborhood I should lease my first apartment in. I _do_ listen. She just doesn't listen to_ me_."

I can hear him clicking the button on his pen in rapid fire, a nervous habit he's had nearly all my life. I've heard him click that pen before buying cars, signing contracts, and writing particularly large checks. For some reason, the noise comforts me, and I know it's just a countdown to a change in the direction in the conversation.

"So, I got this call from old Mrs. Mosier last week," he says finally, once the pen clicking stops. "She said she had a rabid squirrel loose in her house, and that she was too afraid to try to catch it."

Mrs. Mosier accidentally dropped a spare pair of her dentures in my pumpkin one year during Halloween. She's about a hundred years old, and has glasses so thick she should be able to see through walls with them.

"What was it?"

"One of Mr. Mosier's old coonskin caps. The dog found it and tried to bury it under a pile of his toys. Just the tail end was sticking out. She made me put the thing on my head just to prove I was telling her the truth," he laughs.

And just like that, Charlie Swan stops being Switzerland, and just becomes...my father.

I walk into the office Monday morning with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. For once, I'm not worried about my mom, or Edward, or anything, really. It's a strange sensation, one that makes me feel like my feet barely touch the ground when I walk. Not even the pile of paperwork that waits on my desk dampens my spirits. Instead, I dive right into it once my computer starts, and I don't look up until it's close to lunchtime.

My eyes are drawn to Edward's desk. The bright sun shining in from the window diffuses the dimness from a light that's switched off and a computer that hasn't been turned on. That's when I realize. Edward hasn't shown up.

He doesn't come in Tuesday, either.

By Wednesday, I get a little worried. My mind starts going full-speed, because I'm the daughter of a cop and I grew up hearing horror stories about people who weren't heard from for days. All these terrible images flash through my mind: Edward in a car accident; Edward deathly ill; Edward kidnapped in his sleep by rebel forces, stuffed in the back of a-

I really need to stop watching so many movies.

Jessica's the gatekeeper for all goings-on in the office, and since Garrett's out of town at some conference, I figure if anyone here will know where Edward is, it's her. I probably would've asked her on Monday if she hadn't been so relentless in her teasing over the weekend, and I feel embarrassed that I've waited so long just to check up on him.

Reluctantly, I stand up and walk over to her desk, where she's patting at the swollen, bruised skin under her eye with a compact puff. She snaps the case shut when she sees me approaching.

"Your eye's looking better," I say. Today it's starting to take on a yellowish hue, which is a vast improvement over the battered black and blue that it was only a few days ago. Still, she looks like she's going to cry.

"It does not," she says, sounding distressed, her eyes starting to water. "And I don't care what you say, Bella. Eric spiked that ball into my face on purpose!"

I try not to roll my eyes at her, because that would just accentuate the fact that I have two good ones while she doesn't, and I don't want to add insult to injury right now.

"He did not. He's just really short, and has _really_ bad hand-eye coordination."

Jessica harrumphs as she throws her makeup back into her purse, and I have second thoughts about starting a conversation with her right now. She looks like a woman on the edge, and I'm not sure if I should leave her be, or try to talk to her to get her mind off things.

I decide to go for the latter, and pray like hell.

"Is Shelly sick?" She didn't come in today either, and after the way Jessica's harassed me as far as Edward's concerned, I don't dare ask about him first.

"Yeah," Jessica replies, scrunching up her nose. "She called in this morning, and sounded really stuffed up. I think she's got a cold; she said her sinuses were hurting her."

"Ugh, that sucks." I was worried that maybe the camping was too much for her, but we didn't really do anything all that strenuous. Besides, she's the kind of person who would speak up if something was too much for her. If she was feeling stretched too thin, she would've said so.

"Edward's out, too. I think he needs some time to recover after being semi-decent to people all weekend. He probably had to spend most of Thursday night looking at posters of puppies and kittens to prepare himself."

I feel bad about it, but I laugh anyway, because this ridiculous image of Edward being strapped to a chair and forced to watch YouTube clips of baby animals frolicking in a field is completely hilarious to me.

Then, the tiniest bit of disappointment sets in, breaking my laugh into smaller and smaller pieces until it completely disappears.

"Did he call in this morning?" I ask, craning my neck to read some memo that Jessica has hanging from her desk. I'm hoping that it makes me look disinterested in her answer, but I'm positive that it doesn't. So, I qualify my curiosity.

"I was just wondering," I begin, toying with the button on my left shirt cuff. "Because I have this thing that's due to him today, and if he's not going to be here, I guess I have a little more to time to work on the...thing."

The thing. The _thing_. Yes, Bella. Very convincing. Why don't you just ask for his mother's maiden name and social security number while you're at it? That's not obvious, either.

She doesn't believe me. I can tell by the way she's looking at me; all creased brows and pursed lips, skepticism painted on her face like I'm trying to sell her the Brooklyn Bridge. She at least has the decency to pretend, though, and for that I'm grateful. I don't want her to know how much I'd been looking forward to seeing him again, just to find out if the niceties from this weekend extended past their forty-eight-hour grace period.

"I didn't talk to him. Garrett sent me an email about it on Sunday night. Maybe he got sick like Shelly did," she says.

"Yeah, maybe. Did Garrett say when he'd be back?" The way she looks at me when I say that makes me want to crawl into a hole. "I was just wondering because of that thing...that I was working on."

God, Bella. Shut up about the _thing_!

"No," she says, with this sly, knowing smile. I wish there really _was_ a thing. A thing I could use to smack that smirk off her face. "I guess he'll be back when he's feeling better. Or worse, I suppose. You never know with Edward."

"Yeah," I reply. "I guess you never do."

And so the day goes on just like all the others. I work until the sun burns bright orange across the sky, and when darkness sets in and bleeds across the horizon, I lay down to sleep with a twinge of worry pulling on my mind.

When I step into the office on Thursday morning, a hoarse Shelly sits at her desk, gnawing on a bagel. I don't talk to her for too long, not wanting to stress her already over-stressed voice past its limits, and when I bend down to put my bag next to my chair, I find a surprise that makes me smile.

There, on a small pink plate sitting on top of a small pink napkin, is a frosted donut with sprinkles on top.

I look around to see who left it; across Edward's dim, empty corner, then towards my left, at the line of cubes where Mike and Tyler sit. I look down at the donut, then back up, searching for a coworker, as if this thing is a treasure that someone accidentally left that's going to be taken away from me any moment. I realize this is crazy thinking, because it's just a donut, but it's _exactly _what I need this morning.

I decide there's only one person who could've left it: the bagel-eating office sugarholic named Shelly Cope. So, I do what any well-mannered person would do. I walk over to thank her and hopefully suss out what kind of treat I can bring in to return the favor, because there's no way in hell I'm bringing the woman a box of Lucky Charms just so she can eat fake marshmallows.

Shelly's nose-deep in the _Chicago Manual of Style_, book in one hand, half-eaten bagel in the other. She's got three different types of tissue laid out in a row in front of her, along with a jar of Vicks and a box of DayQuil. I wonder if she should even be here today. There's nothing worse than a summer cold, and I most certainly don't want to get sick, so I stand as far away from her as possible without seeming impolite.

I carefully lean over to pick a piece of candy out of the crystal bowl on the edge of her desk and say, "Thank you for the donut."

She looks up at me slowly, and her glasses slide down her nose. The beaded chain they're connected to hangs down around her neck like broken electrical wire, as she looks from my eyes to the candy. The candy to my eyes. My eyes back to the candy. It's almost like she's hypnotized, until she shakes her head slowly, sympathetically.

"Oh, sweetie," Shelly replies, pushing her glasses up with her long, crooked index finger. "That's a mint, not a donut."

"I know _this_ is a mint," I say, laughing. "I was thanking you for the donut you left on my desk."

She's confused.

"This morning," I clarify. "On the pink plate."

She's _completely_ confused.

Actually, she's not even confused, really. She's just looking at me like I have two heads; like I'm a colossal moron. Maybe I _am_ a colossal moron.

"I'm sorry, Bella, that wasn't me," she says, like she's telling me she just ran over my puppy.

"It's been a long morning," I reply, folding my arms across my chest. I walk back to my desk with the wheels of my mind turning, not really paying attention to much of anything until I'm sitting in my chair, staring at that round, sprinkled enigma wrapped in a riddle.

I press the tip of my finger against a few of the fallen sprinkles, then taste the sweetness with the tip of my tongue. I'm not too keen on eating something when I don't know where it came from, but I really, _really _want this donut. How dangerous can it be? It's not like some donut demon planted it on my desk with the hopes that I would eat it so he could steal my soul. I mean, it's a _donut_.

I rip off a piece and let the sugary frosting melt on my tongue, when a new email pops up in my inbox.

**From:** Edward Cullen**  
To: **Isabella Swan**  
Date:** June 23, 2010 9:32 AM**  
Subject:** Don'tnut

Bella,

You really shouldn't eat things when you're not sure where they came from.

-EC

* * *

When did he get here? I hadn't even noticed him, yet there he sits, right across from me. He's either really busy reading something, or he's pretending that he's really busy reading something, the way his eyes refuse to meet mine.

His desk was untouched when I got in this morning, I'm sure of it. So how did he do this? At the moment, it doesn't really matter, I guess. I smile at his playfulness, and if I had any lingering doubts that he was sincere this weekend, they were erased with the press of the 'Send' button.

I think about what I want to say for a minute before I begin to type.

* * *

**From:** Isabella Swan**  
To:** Edward Cullen**  
Date:** June 23, 2010 9:39AM**  
Subject:** DOnut

I know where donuts come from. A magical lady in a special kitchen in a faraway land puts butter and sugar and flour and eggs into an enchanted bowl, mixes them into a perfect dough, and then fries them with all the love she has in her heart. The sprinkles are dusted on top by fairies. Fat little donut fairies.

You should try one, it might make you smile more often.

-Bella

* * *

I do my level best not to look over at him while he reads what I've written, and less than five minutes later, he answers me back.

* * *

**From:** Edward Cullen**  
To:** Isabella Swan**  
Date:** June 23, 2010 9:43AM**  
Subject:** Donut assume

See what I did there?

I had one this morning that was quite similar to the one you're eating right now, actually. I can't figure out why you love the sprinkles so much, but I would expect nothing less from a woman who is terrified of Abraham Lincoln.

-EC

P.S. The cashier at the donut shop had a mustache, but no beard. Is that okay?

P.P.S. I paid for it with a $5 bill. Don't let that taint the experience.

* * *

**From:** Isabella Swan**  
To:** Edward Cullen**  
Date:** June 23, 2010 9:47AM**  
Subject:** You donut have to make fun of me...

See what _I_ did _there_?

The sprinkles are more for aesthetics than taste, but a guy who keeps his desk as messy as you do probably doesn't care much about aesthetics.

You weren't even here this morning. How did you sneak this in?

Have you been sick? Are you feeling better?

-Bella

P.S. Mustaches are fine. They're natural. Why take the time to shave it off when you're just going to leave the rest of the hair there? That's part of what makes Abe look so shifty.

P.P.S. That's my least favorite currency. I always pay with the bills face down. And pennies. Don't even get me started on pennies...

* * *

It takes him a long time to reply.

* * *

**From:** Edward Cullen**  
To:** Isabella Swan**  
Date:** June 23, 2010 10:10AM**  
Subject:** Donut underestimate me

My day usually starts before you even wake up in the morning. I had things to take care of here before my meetings. I figured I've given you so much sour that you deserved a little sweet.

Yes, I was sick.

-EC

P.S. Surprisingly, your logic makes sense.

P.P.S. I think you're the first person I've ever met with a least favorite currency.

* * *

**From:** Isabella Swan**  
To:** Edward Cullen**  
Date:** June 23, 2010 10:16AM**  
Subject:** Thank you

That's all there is to say. You are very sweet, and so is this delicious donut.

-Bella

P.S. My logic _always_ makes sense.

P.P.S. Watch yourself, buddy. Keep poking fun at my fear of Abraham Lincoln, and I might have to tease you about that weird way you eat your sandwiches.

* * *

I wait and wait, but he doesn't answer me back.

In the early evening, when our coworkers have all cut out for the day because our boss is gone, Edward and I are the only two who remain, consciences too heavy to shirk our duties, and inboxes too full to be able to, anyway. I'm so wrapped up in figuring out a formula I need for this stupid spreadsheet I'm working on that I don't even notice Edward calling my name until he's standing right in front of me.

"Bella?" he says loudly, looking kind of worried.

His voice startles me, and I nearly knock over my bottled water. "Yeah?"

"I stepped out for a second, and when I came back there was someone in the hallway waiting for you."

"What?" I ask. Nothing about the sentence he just spoke makes a lick of sense to me.

"It's a woman. She's upset," he says, looking hesitantly to his right, like some tidal wave of tears and estrogen is about to crest and pull him out to sea. "Short, black hair. I've seen you eating lunch with her downstairs."

"Alice," I say, and it feels like I'm upright and halfway to her by the time I get the word out. She didn't call me to let me know that she was going to stop by, so when I see her sitting there, bent at the waist with her head resting on her knees, I panic.

"Al?" I say, quickly taking the empty seat beside her. "What's wrong?"

Her eyes are all puffy and red from what looks like hours of crying, so I reach up and smooth her hair back behind her ear and attempt to soothe her. "It's going to be okay," I say, even though it might be a complete lie, because I have no idea what's going on.

She's sitting upright now, and breathing in short, shallow hiccups that make me feel like I should give her a paper bag to breathe into in case she's hyperventilating. A box of Kleenex creeps into my peripheral vision, and when I look up I see Edward holding them out to me so gingerly, like they're a bomb getting ready to go off.

I take the box and balance it on my knees, as I pull one, two, three tissues out to begin to dry the stream of tears from my best friend's face. I wrap my arm around her and pull her close, then say in my softest voice, "Tell me what happened."

"I was watching my sister's kids last night," she says, looking over at me with her fearful, watery eyes. "And Jasper, he had to stay at work late, you know, so it was just the three of us." She sniffles, and I hand her another tissue. "I made them all fish sticks, for dinner, and…"

More hiccups, more tears, more tissues.

I begin to rub her back, relieved that this is probably going to wind up being much less of a big deal than she's making it out to be. Knowing Alice, she probably burned dinner or accidentally served them something that was still frozen in the middle.

"That doesn't sound so bad," I say, trying to sound reassuring.

Alice laughs bitterly, then sniffles before wiping her red nose. Her glassy eyes focus on mine for what seems like a long time before her trembling lips finally say the words she's holding back. "My nephew...he got sick."

I bite the insides of my lips to keep myself from laughing, because this would be a really inopportune time to do that. But in reality, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who hasn't had a stomachache after eating something that Alice made.

"He's a kid. Kids get sick."

"He…he didn't make it to the bathroom in time," she stammers through quick breaths.

"Okay…"

"Then _I_ got sick. Right there next to him."

"Oh. Well, you're pregnant, Alice. I've seen you throw up after looking at peach cobbler." Really, who wouldn't want to vomit at the prospect of cleaning up vomit? Luckily, instinct tells me this probably isn't the right thing to say to her right now.

"What if it's not just that? What if I'm just not cut out for…how am I going to handle shitty diapers and puke? I had to wait for Jasper to come home and clean it up!"

"Well, maybe that's the trade-off," I say. "You lose your lunch while you carry the kid for nine months, so Jasper gets cleanup duty when the kid loses his."

Alice looks dumbfounded for a second, and then she just…laughs that really great laugh that's all mixed up in a swirl of tears and emotions, that turns the tide from one mood to another. "You're insane, Bella," she says quietly once she's calmed down, then she laces her fingers with mine. "What if I'm a bad mother?"

I kiss the top of her head, which holds such a brilliant, mixed-up brain full of irrational inferiority complexes that I can't help but love it. "_You're_ insane," I say, smiling. "I don't know anyone who would be a better mother than you."

"Really?" she asks.

"Really. Remember that time I got strep throat, and you came and stayed with me and made sure I was pumped full of antibiotics and fresh soup on the hour, every hour?"

She nods, and the corner of her mouth lifts up just a little. "I ordered that soup, I didn't make it."

I pull her close, and she tucks her head beneath my chin. "Al, it doesn't matter where you got it from, what matters is that you knew I needed it, and you made sure it was there. You've got the biggest heart; everyone who's met you knows that. If those things don't make a great mother, then I don't know what does."

"Yeah?" She looks at me skeptically, but finally the crying has stopped.

"Absolutely."

She rests her head on my shoulder, and I rub circles on her back as her breathing returns to normal and she stops sniffling.

"I'm sorry I just showed up. I was fine all day, then I talked to Jasper. He made a joke about it, and I know he was just trying to make me feel less shitty about the whole thing, but I…I panicked. I hope you don't get in trouble, and-"

"It's okay," I say, quickly, not wanting her to feel guilty on top of everything else. "If you start to freak out again, just call me. I'll be there to tell you how wonderful you are. But Al?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm here for you always, but...I think that when you start feeling like this, you might want to talk to Jasper about it. He's in it too, you know, and maybe he's scared of the same thing. You two could help each other out."

She nods, and her hand falls from mine as she stands up. She leans over and takes one final tissue from the box, and gently pats the skin beneath her eyes.

"Do I have that pregnancy glow?" she asks sarcastically.

"You're glowing, all right."

She wraps her tiny arms around my waist and hugs me so tight. When she loosens her grip on me, I look over her shoulder and see Edward standing a few feet away watching us tentatively. How long has he been there?

"Do you want me to walk you out?" I ask.

She shakes her head against my neck. "No, I'm okay. I think the fresh air will do me good. I love you," she says, giving me one last squeeze before she turns toward the door.

"I love you, too," I reply, and then she's gone.

I toss the used tissues into the wastebasket next to Jessica's desk, and when I return to mine, Edward's looking out the window with his arms crossed. There's something about the set of his jaw and the crease between his eyebrows that makes me think he's upset, and that I need to apologize.

"I'm sorry about that," I say, pointing back toward the door. "I didn't know she was coming, she's never just dropped by. It's not really like her not to call or-"

"I'm not going to tell on you, Bella," he says, and the look on his face makes me feel a little queasy. "This is high school stuff. We're adults, aren't we? Can we just be friendly and not worry about backstabbing and underhandedness?"

"Well, yeah, sure," I say, standing awkwardly across from him as these awkward words fall from my awkward lips. Edward looks skeptical, which I suppose I would be too, if he sounded the way I do right now.

"Did you think this weekend was me running my mouth? Empty words and bullshit?" His voice is very even-keeled; he's not angry or upset, even. He just sounds confused.

"No, I didn't think that, but I wasn't sure how off-the-clock talk translated into on-the-clock interaction." My hands twist against my thighs, and the way Edward's eyes drift down to look at them makes my palms start to sweat.

He shrugs, and puts his hands in his pockets. "Can't it just translate into us being nice to each other? Or, given my history, me being nice to you and you letting me?"

The slight tinge of self-deprecation in his question makes me laugh, and I nod. "I'll have to check my 'Edward-to-English' dictionary, but I think that sounds good."

His lips pull back over those perfect white teeth, and the look is contagious. When he smiles like this, the little creases at the edges of his eyes crack the stress away, and he looks like he should be out playing baseball or soccer. Like he should be out in the sun, free, not chained to a desk and wasting away under fluorescent lights.

I have to admit that even under the institutional glow of professional-grade ballasts, with his face all lit up with light that just emanates from him, he looks so alive. So at ease. So handsome.

And that is _so_ not something I should be thinking. I step back from that ledge and walk behind my desk to sit down in my chair, because I feel uncomfortable and unsteady. I need more solid legs beneath me than my own.

"Thank you for helping with my friend. You know, the tissues and everything."

Edward nods, and takes a step closer. "Is she okay? You seemed to be able to calm her down pretty quickly."

"Yeah," I reply, smiling. "It's amazing what you can do when a few tears don't really scare you."

Edward laughs. "They scare the hell out of me. I've never been good at dealing with them."

"Have you made a lot of women cry?"

"I like to think the number would be less than 'a lot,'" he says with a shrug. "But I don't think that kind of thing gets easier with repeated exposure."

"Probably not."

"So, Isabella Swan. You can pitch a tent in record time, you make a mean potato salad, you can make a girl who's crying hysterically laugh in less than five minutes, and you're a whiz with Excel formulas. Is there anything you can't do?"

"I have my mother on speed-dial. She could probably give you a whole list," I say. Edward shifts his weight uncomfortably, because he's too polite to laugh. My words were biting; even someone who's never met me before would know there's a history there. A long, storied, bitter history. I quickly try to lighten things up.

"I cheat with the Excel stuff," I admit. "There's a message board I post on; someone usually takes pity on me and helps me out. And I can't juggle."

"I can. Maybe I'll show you sometime." His chest is all puffed out as he turns his head cockily to the side, straightening his tie with bravado.

"You're talking flaming clubs and knives, right? Not sissy little balls or-"

"Bean bags," he says uncertainly, as he rolls his shoulders. "Three at most, if I'm lucky."

"I'm going to hold you to that offer," I reply, laughing.

He walks over to the cabinet behind me, and leans forward to look at my pictures. I swivel in my chair to watch him as he sees most of my family and friends for the very first time.

He seems to stare at the ones of Emmett and me the longest. So long, in fact, that I expect him to comment on them, but he doesn't, and he's so intent and studious that I don't offer up any information. He keeps moving, his eyes roaming over a professional photo taken of Alice and me, outside of the reception hall at her and Jasper's wedding. That one earns a grin that makes the tiniest dimple dip into the lightly tanned skin of Edward's right cheek.

He picks up one of me with a group of my friends from college that was taken the night before graduation. We were all smiley and buzzed, on that wonderful edge of being where you can still process what's going on around you, but you just don't _care_. We had bright, happy faces that were excited for the future, even though we had no idea where it was taking us.

"Was this in college?" he asks, turning the photo so that I can see it.

"Yep. My friend Angela is the one in the white tank-"

"Angela from the adventures of the carnival telescope?" he says, almost sounding like he's reciting the name of a band or something. It makes me smile.

"The very one."

His brow furrows as he places the frame back in its spot. "Do you mind me looking at these?"

"I wouldn't have put them up there if I minded the questions." For some reason this comment makes me realize that I've never seen a single picture of his. Not of family, a vacation spot. Anything. "You don't have any on your desk."

He looks at me, then slightly twists his body to point at the picture he just held.

"Where did you go? To college, I mean," he says, leaning back against the cabinet and crossing his arms over his chest, completely ignoring my comment.

"Do you always ask people this many questions?"

He smiles, and there's that cute dimple again. It makes my eyes look at it, even though they don't want to. "No." He shakes his head, and the friendly dimple fades away. "It seems I'm only this curious about you."

They aren't special words or anything, and he doesn't say them in any extraordinary way, but when they reach my ears, they make warmth flood through me. Warmth that flows from my throat to my limbs, like I've just taken a sip of hot chocolate after spending the afternoon playing in the snow.

"I went to U-Dub. You?"

"Dartmouth," he replies, like the name is a curse. He keeps looking at that one photo of my girlfriends and me in college, and his face is sad, like he's remembering or missing something. I can't quite figure out what it is, unless he was the first male to successfully pledge a sorority, or some kind of campus Peeping Tom.

"Did you leave a lot of friends behind there?" I ask, since it's the least ridiculous of the questions that are floating through my head right now.

Edward smiles sadly, then his eyes meet mine. He kind of nods and shrugs in some strange gesture that I can't read. "I left a lot of things behind there."

Is that a yes or a no? I'm not sure, but I do know that he probably wouldn't elaborate if I asked him to. "It's obvious you have some friends here," I say brightly, trying to make the conversation less heavy. Our easy teasing has turned so serious, and whatever it is that's on his mind is pulling his smile and good mood down with it.

"What do you mean?"

"I see you on the phone sometimes. You look happy then; someone must put that smile on your face."

"Oh, yeah," he replies quietly. The way his eyes are downcast and his shoulders slump, I can tell I've said the wrong thing.

He stands abruptly, and looks at the clock on the wall.

"It's getting late," he says, as he walks back over to his desk, effectively ending the conversation. "Are you staying much longer?"

"No." I shut down my computer and turn the monitor off. "I should probably get out of here."

For once, when we get into the elevator, we don't gravitate toward the walls to keep our distance.

We walk out to the parking lot in companionable silence. My car is parked close to an old, dilapidated Volvo that I don't recognize at all, and I realize as Edward keeps in stride with me that the beater is his. It's strange, because ever since I've been working here, he's been driving a much newer, much nicer car. I'm hesitant to ask about it given the change in his demeanor, so I don't.

He says goodnight and despite the loud groan you'd expect from a car that looks like that, it manages to start.

My car, however, makes a loud groan that I don't expect. No matter how many times I turn the key in the ignition, whisper words of prayer to the heavens, or punch the steering wheel with the palm of my hand, I can't get the sucker to start.

"Pop the hood." Edward's muffled voice filters through the passenger window, and I bend forward to pull on the latch as he unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows.

When I get out of the car, he's got one hand planted near the grill for balance, and his hips jut out as he pokes and prods my engine with the other. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, and God, he looks kind of sexy when he does that. I shouldn't be thinking about him like this at all, and he's looking around with a lot less confidence than Jake used to, and-

No. I _can't_ think about this.

"You're going to have to call a tow," he says, brushing his hands together with loud claps as he steps away from the car.

A couple of nervous little butterflies try to escape my stomach when he says those words, and I can almost hear my bank account crying from halfway across town. I really want to kick myself for not bothering to pay attention when Jake used to talk to me about car repair. Emmett might be able to look at it for me, but it's such a long drive and I'll have to do _something_ with it until he comes down on the weekend.

I look at my watch, and notice how dark it's starting to get. I don't want to wait around for a shady tow truck all on my own, and I certainly don't want to ask him to stay here with me.

"Oh, yeah. Okay," I say, fumbling through my wallet to find my AAA card. Edward gently closes the hood, and then stands there, looking at me. I have a feeling he's irritated. He's always in a rush to go somewhere, I know I must be holding him up. "You don't have to stay here and wait. There are flood lights; I'll be okay until the truck comes."

"You think I'd just leave you here?" he says incredulously. "There are people with mustache-less beards walking around the city, Bella. If one of them were to hurt you, I couldn't live with that on my conscience." His voice is all sarcastic, with just the right touch of dramatics. He speaks like a well-seasoned smartass, and it makes me like him a little bit more.

"Nice," I laugh.

"Why don't you let me take you home, and we'll take care of this tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay." I'm embarrassed that I jumped on his offer so quickly, but why turn down a ride?

Edward runs over to the driver's side of his car, then leans across the seat to pick up the trash that's scattered across the floorboard. I pull the door open just as he's cleaned it up, and I notice there's a bunched-up pile of blankets and a pillow in the back seat.

He seems nervous, so I try to break up the tension.

"I hear Chevys are the best to sleep in," I say, nodding toward the back seat. "They've got superior leg room for those who need a home away from home. It was in _Consumer Reports_ or something."

A crease grows between Edward's eyebrows as he frowns, and when he slams his door shut, I can tell that it doesn't matter whether that was a joke or not. He didn't think it was very funny.

"I don't sleep in here," he says roughly, as he pulls the gearshift into drive.

"I know." My voice barely registers over the accelerating engine. "I was just...I didn't mean for it to upset you."

"I'm not upset," he says calmly, even though the set of his jaw and the way his fingers grip the steering wheel suggest otherwise.

"Okay." As I quietly tick off directions to him, I realize that what he said to me when we were sitting by the lake this weekend is true. He's _not_ an asshole; he's just stressed. It's practically written on his face most of the time, like it is right now. I'm a good judge of character, and if he was an ass, I don't think he'd go to such great lengths to prove to me that he isn't. I think he's just a guy who really needs a friend. For some reason, I want to be that friend.

Judging by the way things are going this evening, though, I'm just not sure if I can.

The brakes squeal as Edward pulls to a stop in front of my apartment, and I linger probably a little too long as I lean forward to pick up my bag. Edward's hands slide in half circles around the steering wheel, and his cheeks puff out as he lets out a long breath of air. I know he's not going to say anything to me, and the longer I sit here and wait for it, the more I'll feel like a fool.

"Thank you for the ride," I say quickly, as I tug on the door handle and push it open. It clicks shut as my heels pound the pavement, and the asphalt radiates residual heat from the hot summer sun that feels warm on my legs.

When I open my door, I throw my bag on the counter and let out a frustrated groan, then pick up my phone to call Alice to ask for a ride to work before it gets too late. As I walk into my living room, the red glow of brake lights from outside my window distracts me, and I flip on the light switch before I go over and investigate.

There's Edward, standing with his elbows resting on the roof of his car, and his hands clasped behind his neck. He's rocking from side to side, who knows why, and right when I'm getting ready to go down to see if he's okay, he looks up and sees me.

A slow, contrite smile plays at his lips, and he shrugs his shoulders as he lifts his hand up in a shy, apologetic wave. I wave back. He looks at me for a long while before he slips into his car, and after a long day of putting his real self on display, back into his shell.

I watch his tail lights grow fainter as he drives away, keeping me at a familiar distance, tucked safely behind the glass.


	8. Blueshift

**Chapter Eight**

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_**Blueshift**: A __shift in the lines of an object's spectrum towards the blue end. Blueshift indicates that an object is moving toward the observer. The larger the blueshift, the faster the object is moving._

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"If you're going to act like this, we might as well just take my car," I say, shoving my hands in my pockets as Emmett buffs an imaginary spot off of the paint on the passenger-side door of his new truck.

"And get stranded on the way to the studio? No thanks," he replies, like the superior jerk that he is. "Rosie's waiting for us."

"It's just a ten-minute ride. Besides, I spent eight-hundred dollars on the thing this morning. If it breaks again, I'll make that mechanic sorry he ever learned what a serpentine belt is." I shake my fist the way Nana Swan used to, back when Emmett was normal-sized and we used to fight over her remote control during the long summer days we'd spend cooped up inside her plastic-covered living room.

He's still rubbing away at nothing, so I lick my finger and swipe it across the trim two inches to his left, just to piss him off.

"That's _it_," he says, throwing his towel across the hood of the truck. He wraps one meaty arm around my ribcage like a human straitjacket, and I'm powerless. I can't move my arms no matter how hard I try, and all I can do is wait for the torture. I raise my shoulder as much as I can and press my right ear against it in a proactive move, but I'm a novice at this game and Emmett knows it.

It takes him less than two seconds to exploit my weak left side, but the good news is I'm prepared for it. The bad news is-

"Ew, ew, _ew_!" I yell as Emmett blows in my ear, all wet and cold and gross. He's laughing maniacally, like one of those villains in cartoons who ties young maidens to railroad tracks. "A wet Willie? Seriously?"

I'm about to use my legs to break free, but before I know it, I'm being flipped over, and end up face-to-face with the asphalt. "What are you doing?" I cry. I punch my brother in the shin, but I think it hurts me more than it does him. "I love you, Emmett, but I will kick you in the face if you don't put me down!"

I'm righted before all my blood has a chance to rush to my head, and once I get my bearings, I smack Emmett's shoulder. I'm sure my neighbors think we're crazy. "What in the hell did you do that for?"

"I was just checking your shoes for dirt and gum," he says, then smirks at me as he rounds the front of the truck.

I grudgingly open the door and slam it shut before I buckle my seat belt with a loud snap.

"Be gentle, okay?" Emmett says, as he gingerly slides into his seat. He turns the key in the ignition, and some top-of-the-line engine that he won't shut up about roars to life.

"We were supposed to meet Rose twenty minutes ago," I tell him. Emmett doesn't seem all that hurried, and as he starts to whistle while he backs out of the parking spot, I realize that's exactly the way he planned it. "You know she's gonna be pissed."

Emmett rolls his eyes. "It's not like she _ever_ keeps me waiting." He's so sarcastic.

"Running behind because you're getting ready is not the same as being purposely late," I explain, giving him the sternest look I have in my arsenal.

"Whether it's on her face or my truck, perfecting paint is perfecting paint, Bella." He looks so smug as he grips both sides of the steering wheel, and I imagine what would happen if Rose were here to hear that.

"Say that to her, and she'll kick your ass." Not even physically, which he could handle, but in the small, subtle ways that leave him all flustered and confused.

He shrugs. "Half the fun of fighting is the making up." His eyebrows wiggle, and I feel like I might throw up a little.

"Don't, please. That's just...I don't want to think about it," I say, holding my hand up in front of my face, hoping like hell that it'll help me block out the images I'm trying so desperately to keep at bay.

Emmett makes a left down a side street that will add another ten minutes onto our commute, and I can't figure out why he's doing this. "Why are you taking the back way? We'd get there quicker if you just kept going straight. This is your wedding, Em. Don't you want to be a part of planning it?"

Emmett sighs. "Bell, we're going to band auditions, not a church. Rosie's gonna pick musicians she likes to play music she likes in a reception hall that will look the way she wants it to look," he says, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he looks out at the road. "This is _her_ thing; I'd marry her in a dumpster if I had to. I don't care what we wear or where we are, as long as she's my wife at the end of the night."

A reluctant smile pulls at my lips as I look over at my brother. He's being a bit of a jerk about this whole thing, but I can't find it in me to tell him that, since he just said about the sweetest thing I think I've ever heard come out of his mouth.

"Besides, we're not going to miss the auditions, just all the bullshit yammering her wedding planner will do before they get started. Believe me, you'll be thanking me in an hour."

"Yeah." He's right, I probably will. I love Rose, but I regretted accepting her invitation to do this the moment the 'yes' left my mouth. Parties really aren't my thing, and I'm not even sure I'll be able to offer her any kind of valuable insight.

"You know," he says cautiously, nervous words that make my stomach tie up in knots before he even says what he's going to say. "Dad's birthday is in three weeks."

"I'm aware," I reply, clumsily fumbling to find the water bottle Emmett tried to prohibit me from bringing along with us. I take a huge swig, hoping that a full mouth will buy me some time to think of something to say.

"What are you going to do?" He seems impatient, like he's ready to fight with me even if he doesn't have to.

"What do I always do?" I take my frustration out on the bottle, twisting the cap back on until the plastic squeaks in my palm. I let the pain on my skin take away the ache that I feel in my heart, that Emmett thinks I could ever let Dad down like that.

"Good," he says satisfactorily. "He'd be crushed if you didn't go."

And it's funny he says that, because I feel like I'll be crushed if I do.

I plunk the bottle back into the cup holder, and it wobbles loudly. Emmett stills it with his hand and shakes his head.

"Do you have to be so rough with everything?" he asks, sounding just like a father admonishing a child.

"I can't wait until you have a kid and it projectile vomits all over the leather," I say dryly, as we roll to a stop at a red light. His eyes narrow the way they do right before he cracks up, because unlike other members of our family, Emmett and I can never stay mad at each other for long. "I'm warning you though: stick your finger in my ear again, and I'll pray for twins."

My brother grins widely, but he doesn't come back at me. If I had to guess, I'd say he probably wants that more than anything in the world.

"There's a spot right there," I say, as we roll right past a space in front of the studio. We can't park too close, because there are people walking nearby who might accidentally breathe on his new baby. Instead, he parks in a nearly empty lot at the end of the block.

"It's a shame you couldn't find someone from Forks or Port Angeles to play the wedding." I shift the weight of my purse as we begin our trek across the hot cement sidewalk.

"We could have, but we weren't looking for a jug band," he replies, laughing. "Or someone who plays the spoons."

"The Forks Spoons."

"The Sporks." Emmett stands aside to hold the door open for me.

The soft, lilting music from a harpsichord pushes my laughter back down my throat, and Emmett's eyes widen as he looks at me. It's that look of terror I only get to see when he knows he's well and truly fucked up.

This is one of those times.

He tiptoes over the lavish Oriental rug that covers the hardwood floor of the lobby, past the cream-colored walls dressed with elegant sconces and rich oil paintings. I follow closely behind him, my hands on his back, as he slowly peers into the audition room. What I see nearly breaks my heart, so I can only imagine what it does to Emmett's.

Rose sits alone at the end of a long table, her cheek resting on her hand, with two empty chairs beside her.

When the gentle melody ends and the harpsichordist leaves the stage, it's almost as if Rose can _sense_ us in the doorway, because she turns and glares at my brother with a murderous look in her eyes.

"You should probably go in there and sit down," Emmett says. His voice is kind of low and urgent, because he knows what he's in for. I can't say he doesn't deserve it.

The anger on Rose's face melts as I walk toward her, and I'm glad to know that I seem to be exempt from this. I didn't ask to be picked up, after all, Emmett insisted. She stands and hugs me, whispering warm greetings in my ear. She rubs my upper arms as I do what little I can to plead my brother's case, and her eyes grow hard as she steels herself for the confrontation.

"Give him hell," I whisper as she glides away, making a beeline for Emmett, who's sulking in the lobby like a puppy with his tail between his legs.

An older man with a weather-worn face shuffles onto the stage, and pushes the harpsichord back into the wings on casters. Four music stands form a semicircle on the right side of the small stage, and a sleek baby grand piano resides on the left. The stage lights shine off of its tilted top, making red, white, and blue circles across a sea of black.

I look up and see Rose gesturing wildly at my brother, who just stands there looking contrite as he listens, because there's no fight in him today. He knows he's in the wrong. I reach into my purse and fiddle with my phone to pass the time, until Rose and Emmett return minutes later.

"I'm sorry we kept you waiting," Rose says, and I laugh because she sounds so professional, like I'm some important client whose needs she's been neglecting.

"Well, I'm going to have to-"

My lips cut my words short when I realize that she wasn't talking to me at all. She was talking to the pianist. The pianist who happens to be looking right at me.

The pianist named Edward Cullen.

"This isn't really an attractive look for you," Emmett says, as he gently lifts my jaw back into its proper place. "You don't want flies to get in there."

I shake him off and look at Edward, who's arranging sheet music, his face unreadable.

"I know him," I say, a lot louder than I intended to. "I know him," I repeat in a whisper.

"Will he work for free?" Emmett asks seriously. Of course that would be what comes out of his fool mouth. Rose smacks him on the arm, and I'm about to say something mean when Edward clears his throat.

A stylish woman with impeccable hair and a perfectly-pressed suit strides into the room and takes a seat next to Rose, then leans over and whispers something in her ear. She's holding a clipboard, and her expression is all business; she must be the dreaded wedding planner I've heard so much about. She smiles at me, and all I can look at is her Frieda Kahlo-esque unibrow. My fingers itch for a tongue depressor and a cup of warm wax.

She waves dismissively at Edward, and for some reason, this makes me feel very protective of him. Defensive, even. It doesn't seem to bother him though, because he sits up straight and begins to play.

Only I don't think 'playing' is the proper term for what Edward is doing. The music pours through him like the keys are merely extensions of his fingers, like the piano is part of him. The tune is familiar—something Rose requested, no doubt—even though I can't place the name of it.

His eyes are closed, so peaceful-looking, and the sheet music is an afterthought. He doesn't need it; anyone who has two eyes and a pair of ears can tell that he's played this piece a thousand times before. He's so fluid, so breathtaking there on the stage, and as the music surges and swells, I wonder why he's chosen to spend his life behind an entirely different keyboard. Because he looks so _vibrant _now; like his heart is pumping life through his veins, not just pushing blood to a series of organs that keep him moving and breathing.

Seeing Edward like this, stress-free and completely focused, opens my eyes to him in a completely unexpected way. I realize that he's not just the attractive-but-muted guy I see slumped behind his desk eight hours a day, or pass in the hallways at the office. Edward, here in his element, is absolutely gorgeous.

I hang on every note, every dip of his finger on those ivory keys, and I don't know if it's because I'm enjoying the music so much, or if I'm enjoying Edward playing the music so much, but my stomach slowly sinks when the last note fades, disappearing into the air like a secret.

When he's finished, he stands and delivers a graceful bow, his perfectly-tied tie barely grazing the piano bench. I don't know what the proper protocol is, whether I should clap or not, so I sit awkwardly with my hands suspended in front of me, like one of those toy monkeys holding a pair of cymbals. I'd give him ten standing ovations if I could.

I expect the wedding planner, or even Rose to praise him, but they don't. Instead, Unibrow just releases him with a simple, "Thank you, Edward. I'll call you on Monday."

He walks briskly off the stage, but peeks out from behind the heavy velvet curtain that hangs from the ceiling, meeting my eyes briefly before disappearing into the darkness.

The whole thing only lasted three, maybe four minutes tops, but it was enough to put every nerve in my body into overdrive. Emmett gives me the side-eye as I fidget, my leg bouncing almost uncontrollably. Some stuffed-shirt string quartet takes the stage, but I can't even bring myself to pay attention to them.

My eyes won't move from the door, in hopes that they'll see Edward walk past.

And a few seconds before the quartet lifts their bows to begin, he does just that.

"Excuse me," I say, grabbing my purse and darting for the door before someone dares to stop me. When I'm in the lobby, I run, hoping to catch him before he disappears.

I burst out of the front door, cringing as it slams against the brick wall beside it. The noise startles Edward, who turns quickly, and seems shocked to see me standing there in front of him. My chest is heaving from moving so fast, and suddenly I feel very foolish for putting on such a display.

"Hi," I say breathlessly, raising my hand in this pathetic little half-wave, trying to make myself look nonchalant, as if I didn't just act like an idiot trying to get here to begin with.

"Hey," he replies shyly. This is the first interaction we've had outside of work since our strange goodbye at my apartment two days ago, and it feels just as awkward now as it did then. The way he looks—all nervous and jumpy—if I didn't know better, I'd think he was trying to make a hasty exit.

"You play the piano?" I sound like a genius, like a member of MENSA, what with my superior association skills. I've just deduced that a man I saw playing the piano, actually plays the piano. Brilliant.

Edward relaxes a little, and when he loosens up, he smiles, and runs his hand along the strap of the bag that's draped across his shoulder. I notice that he's changed his clothes; a T-shirt and shorts replace the freshly-pressed khakis and button-down shirt he was just wearing.

"Yes," he laughs. "I play the piano."

"Your hands are like magic," I blurt out, and then cringe. I might as well be wearing some tawdry-looking T-shirt with a picture of a half-naked man on it, because I sound like I'm spewing lines from the worst Harlequin book ever written. I'm pretty sure Edward's cringing too, but he looks at the ground while I make a fool of myself, so I can't really see his reaction. "What I mean is," I say, after taking a deep breath, "is that you're really talented."

"Thank you," he says, as a hint of red creeps up his cheeks. Then his eyes cloud before he asks, "Are you…getting married?"

"What?" I laugh. Then I realize that Edward probably didn't see Emmett making eyes at Rose while he was playing. "No, my brother is. He was in there with his fiancée, Rose. The blonde, not the one with the unibrow." Wow, that was rude.

"I should probably go," Edward says, looking nervously between his clothes and the studio's front door, like he's Clark Kent about to be outed as Superman. "If your brother sees me like this, it'll make a bad impression. And Carmen-"

"Who's Carmen?" I ask, the words rolling off my tongue too forcefully.

"She's the one with the," he begins, motioning his finger between his eyebrows, "you know."

"Oh," I breathe, feeling a strange kind of relief at his explanation. "Well, as long as you're not planning to play naked on stage, they won't care what you're wearing."

"Okay," he says reluctantly. He still looks like he wants to bolt, but he stands with his feet rooted on the spot.

"So, you're...like...Seattle's version of The Wedding Singer?"

Edward laughs, and it makes everything about him seem more fluid. "No. Trust me when I tell you that you don't want to hear me sing. I just do weddings and parties and stuff. Only on the weekends," he adds quickly, his face serious.

"Well, it's amazing that you get to do this. Only on the weekends," I say lightly, hoping to make him smile. When he does, I feel a little bit brighter.

"The money's nice." The second he says this, he sucks a sharp breath through clenched teeth. It's a strange reaction, because I don't know anyone who doesn't think money is nice.

"Are you saving up for something cool?" I'm reminded of the job I took at the Magic Lanes my senior year of college, so I'd have cash to go England for Spring Break. Though I'd be willing to bet wedding gigs pay a hell of a lot better than obliterating fungus from bowling shoes ever did.

Edward looks at the ground, turning his key chain over and over in his hands, and I realize that I've done it again. I've said something that shuts him down, when all I ever wanted to do was open him up. I think it's becoming a pattern with the two of us. A bad one.

"I should probably go," I say, trying not to sound as dejected as I feel. I take a step back before I turn around to head back inside. "I'll see you on Monday, okay?"

"Bella?"

"Yeah?" When I turn, he's rubbing the back of his neck nervously, until his eyes meet mine.

"Do you wanna go grab a coffee or something? I mean, when you're done inside, if you're not busy. There's a cafe at the end of the block-"

"Yeah," I reply, too eagerly. "But I rode with my brother, and-"

"I can take you home." He's just as eager as I am, and it puts me at ease. "You know, if you want me to."

"All right," I say, struggling to keep the anticipation out of my voice. I don't think Em and Rose will mind if I bail, but I'm going to check with them just to make sure. "I'm just gonna go tell my brother."

The second I turn around, the front door of the studio swings open, and Emmett walks out with his arms across his chest. He's got this cocky swagger happening, and I'm not sure if it's supposed to intimidate Edward, or if it's supposed to intimidate me.

"Who's your friend, Bell?" His voice sends a chill down my spine, and it reminds me of the endless interrogation I suffered through the very first time a boy called our house and had the audacity to ask for me.

"Emmett, this is Edward. Edward, this is my brother, Emmett," I say cheerily. "Edward and I _work_ together." I raise my eyebrows as I say this, hoping that my emphasis on the fact that Edward and I are coworkers will make Emmett lay off of the emphasis that he's my big brother.

"Edward," Emmett says with a stone face, as he extends a stiff arm to shake Edward's hand.

"Hi." Edward's white knuckles wrap around Emmett's white knuckles, and if this were a cartoon, Emmett would probably flip Edward over his shoulder and smash his head on the sidewalk.

"If you and Rose don't mind, Edward and I are going to go get some coffee," I say sweetly, as I watch the testosterone-laden death stare intensify.

"How are you getting home?" Emmett asks, his eyes not leaving Edward's.

"Edward's going to take me." Their vise-like faux handshake continues as Emmett sizes Edward up. I begin to wonder how many optical muscles I've strained eyerolling these two. "You can let go now, you know," I say, smacking Emmett on the arm.

"Yeah, all right," he says, taking a step back. "Call me when you get home, though, and make sure you have your mace."

"Jesus, Emmett! Do you want to club me over the head with a bat and drag me back inside or something?" Somehow I manage to sound less annoyed with him than I am. Finally, the hint of a smile pulls at his lips.

Edward drops his bag in the trunk of his car, and I glare at my brother, because I _know _a smart ass remark is just _dying _to come out.

"I'll see you later," I say, waving at him as I take a few steps with Edward.

We're almost clear, when Emmett yells, "Did she tell you our father's a cop?"

He's grinning as he says this, so I don't turn back to throttle him. Instead, I smile apologetically at Edward, and decide to keep all questions to myself to make sure he doesn't sink back into whatever it is that takes over him whenever I open my big mouth. It works, too. For a little while.

"You're really quiet," he says, skipping a step as he kicks a small rock out into the street. "We can turn back if you want."

I look up at him and smile, squinting against the brightness of the sun. "I don't want to turn back." It's true. I want nothing more than to keep walking beside him, through the throngs of people on the sidewalks of these busy streets.

I can hear Edward's small laugh, even over the shrieking from the irritable child in the stroller the two of us sidestep.

"Why are you laughing?"

Edward shrugs as he shoves his hands in his pockets. "This just...it isn't like you to be so quiet."

This weird, nervous energy surges from my stomach in a frenzy, fizzling as it reaches my fingertips, and it makes my breath catch in my throat before I answer him.

"I think I say the wrong things around you sometimes," I reply, rubbing my palms nervously along the seams of my pants. "Like, when we're talking, I make these completely offhanded remarks, and your whole face just falls." I chew on my lip to keep myself from saying the words that are trying to roll off my tongue, but somehow they manage to find their way out. "Most of the time, I don't even know what I've done wrong, but...I hate being the one who makes you look like that."

We're quiet as we walk past quaint little boutiques and shops, and I watch our reflection in the glass storefronts, surprised at how much taller than me Edward is. When we reach the end of the row, he pulls the cafe door open for me, and the comforting scent of fresh-baked cookies and coffee drifts past us. I feel the soft press of his fingertips on the small of my back as we step over the threshold.

"You know," he says, standing close to me as we take our place in line. "Maybe you're not saying the wrong things."

My eyes narrow in confusion, even as they see his soft, friendly smile.

"Maybe you're saying the right ones."

"You lost me," I mutter, feeling the tiniest prickle of frustration.

He sighs as he shakes his head, and looks up at the ceiling. "I know."

All he says are those two words. They're not egotistical or arrogant, they just _are_. I want to shout fifty questions at him and make him give me answers that will settle my curious mind, but I know that will be counterproductive. It occurs to me that drawing him out of his shell won't be a simple task; I'll have to coax him out, to show him that he can trust me first.

When we finally make it to the front of the line, the barista takes our order. I reach into my purse for money, but Edward won't have any of that.

"It's my treat," he insists. "I owe you one, remember?" He opens his wallet, the compartments filled with a few cards and a single bill.

Even though it's only been a couple of months, that morning I bought his coffee in the cafe seems like a lifetime ago. Especially when he winks at me, eyes crinkled at the edges, as he slides a five across the counter to the cashier. Face down.

The place fills up to near capacity in the time it takes for us to get our drinks, and there isn't a seat to spare, inside or out. We walk to his car, sipping and talking, about the weather, about the traffic, about nothing at all. When I'm all buckled up and the engine is humming, I realize that I don't want him to take me home and drop me off so I can get on with my mundane life.

I don't want to spend the day being ordinary. I want to spend the day being with him.

"There's a park down the street from my apartment," I say, my voice a bundle of nerves and insecurity. I feel like I'm asking him to a Sadie Hawkins dance, and even though it's just a park, and he's just a guy, if he says no, it'll hurt. "I thought maybe we could go there and talk?"

Edward smiles, but keeps his eyes on the road. "Yeah?"

He sounds so surprised at my offer that I can't help but laugh a little. "Yeah. If you want to."

Maybe it's my imagination, but I swear I feel the car accelerate.

We park on the street, and Edward tells me he'll catch up with me in a few minutes as he stands beside the trunk, patting his right pocket impatiently. I find an empty bench close to the swing set, and watch as two little girls, all pigtailed and dressed in pink, try to fly higher than each other as they glide through the air. Not long after I sit down, Edward shuffles down the pebbled path, the bottoms of his shoes crunching against the small rocks.

"Everything all right?" I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand as I look up at him. I have so many other questions, _hundreds_ of questions, but I want to keep him here beside me, so I stick with the topical.

"Everything's great." Edward smiles as he sits down, and the wind blows a lock of hair across his forehead. It shines in the bright sunlight, a deep, rich, reddish color that never looks this brilliant when we're in the office.

We sit in companionable silence, watching the kids play as their shrieks and giggles float by and reverberate off of the tall hedges at our backs. So many times I open my mouth to say something, but I stop myself. I don't want him retreating into himself, so I'm going to let him lead.

Three groups of children make rotations on the swings before Edward finally speaks.

"Do you think I have a chance at getting that job?" he asks with a lopsided grin, an innocent cover to a serious question.

"I don't know," I say, fiddling with the ring of cardboard that hugs the side of my coffee cup. "My brother's hung up on hiring some tribute band that plays songs from John Hughes movies."

"The Pretty Wonderful Science Club?" I wait for him to smile, or do anything that would indicate that he's joking. Because he has to be joking, doesn't he?

"Wait, that's a _real _band? I thought Emmett was just screwing around to get Rose all riled up."

"Yeah," Edward replies. "I played the processional at a wedding a few weeks ago, and they did the reception. They're actually really good."

"Wow. Rose's parents would be mortified with a band like that at their daughter's wedding, so I suppose them being good is just icing on the cake." It's quiet, and Edward skims the top of the grass with the heel of his shoe. "I could put in a good word for you if you want."

"No," he says, his eyebrows scrunching together as he shakes his head vehemently. "I would never ask you to do that."

"I've got those two wrapped around my finger," I joke. I hold my pinky up in front of us for emphasis as Edward laughs.

"That doesn't surprise me," he says cautiously, before taking a sip of his coffee.

"What do you mean?"

"It's just the way you are. You make people feel...light." I can see him biting the inside of his bottom lip after, like he regrets even saying it.

"I do?"

"You don't see yourself very clearly, do you?" he asks, letting out this astonished breath of a laugh.

"I guess not."

"It's like...the way you were with your friend the other day, when she was upset. And, you put together that card and the flowers for Marcus when his mother died. You think of things like that, and people know you care. It's what draws people to you, what makes them want to be your friend." He ducks his head shyly, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

His words have this strange effect on me, each one pulling me up as it leaves his mouth. Is that really how people see me? Is that how _he _sees me?

"Thank you," I say. "That's a very nice thing to hear."

"It's true." Edward nods, and rests his elbows on his knees. "Your brother's a really big guy," he says a minute or two later, sliding back into the curve of the wooden seat. He turns his body toward mine and slings his arm across the top of the bench. "You're so small."

I know what he's getting at; Emmett looks like he swallowed a linebacker for lunch, while I'm lucky to be able to meet the minimum height requirement for the grown-up rides over at Wild Waves. Anyone who sees our family together notices, and Edward's observant enough that it doesn't surprise me to find out that he noticed, too.

"You can ask what you want to ask," I say, playfully bumping his knee with mine. "I don't mind, I promise."

Edward looks embarrassed, and it takes him a while to get it out. "The audition slip was for the McCarty/Hale wedding, and I was just wondering..._is _he your brother?"

"He is absolutely my brother," I say with a friendly smile. "But if you're speaking biology and technicalities, I suppose I'd have to say that he's my cousin."

"Oh."

I can tell by the way he hesitates that he's trying to appear much less interested than he really is. Because I want him to be open with me, I take the first step toward being open with him.

"Em's mom was my mom's sister," I explain. "They were really close. Irish twins." I lean back so it's easier to see him, and cross my arms over my chest. It's always easier to talk about that this way, like I'm keeping all the tiny pieces of my heart that never quite mended right where they belong. Edward's eyes are so intense that I can't even look at him; instead, I focus on a patch of grass along the walkway that's longer than the rest. The lawnmower must've missed it.

"My Aunt Charlotte, she'd always been a dancer, but she didn't have the feet to make it as a ballerina. My mom had given her tickets to the ballet in Seattle for her birthday that year. She and my uncle, they were running late coming home; it was raining, and this eighteen-wheeler lost control..."

I'm surprised at how distant I sound from the situation, like it didn't even happen to me. In some ways, I suppose it didn't. The only thing I really remember, a memory that's clear as glass, is the way my mother cried for months after, how her red, puffy eyes became as regular as the rain that fell outside our windows.

"You don't have to tell me any more," Edward says, his voice full of sympathy for my brother, for someone he doesn't even know. "It's good that he has someone like you."

He doesn't even know the half of it. If anyone is the savior between Emmett and me, it's him, but I can't bring myself to tell Edward that.

"He came to live with us soon after that night, and he's been goading me ever since," I say with as much of a smile as I can manage.

Edward laughs. "You two get along then?"

"Most of the time. In all seriousness though, I could not have asked for a better brother."

He looks down at the ground, then smiles softly. "I always wanted a brother or sister."

"They can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but they're good people to have in your corner."

"Seems like it," Edward says.

A second later, a bright orange soccer ball comes flying in our direction, and bounces off of Edward's knee with a thump. He's got quick reflexes, and it's in his hands before the culprit is standing in front of us.

A little boy, no more than four, with unruly hair and a few missing teeth, shyly walks over. He nervously looks back at his father, who's on the other side of the park, but already running in our direction.

"Is this yours?" Edward asks with a smile, holding the ball up in front of his face.

The boy nods slowly.

"Here," he says as he stands up. "Don't use your toe to move it, kick it with the inside of your foot, like this." Edward drops the ball on the ground and taps it lightly as the little boy watches him with interest. His father has slowed to a walk, and while he's close now, he stands back and watches Edward with his son.

The boy runs to where the ball rolled to a stop, and looks up at Edward with huge, admiring eyes, waiting for approval. "Like this?" he asks, as he attempts to kick it the same way Edward just did.

"Yes! Just like that," Edward replies, crouching down.

The boy makes his way over to his father, kicking, then looking back, kicking, then looking back, his smile so big that it's contagious. As he's swallowed up by a group of his friends, his father gives Edward a friendly wave.

Edward stands in that spot for a moment, watching as the boy runs and plays, nearly managing to get the ball through a makeshift goal post. He seems lost somewhere; here, but not really.

"You're good with kids," I say, attempting to draw him back to me.

"Huh?" he replies, looking back, his eyes kind of cloudy and unclear.

"You're really good with kids," I repeat with a smile as he sits down. "Do you have any?"

My breath catches in my throat as I wait for his answer. I'm not sure why I care exactly, but I do. I care more than I'm comfortable caring.

"Oh," he says quietly, looking back toward the boy, and it takes him a few seconds to say anything. "No. It's just me."

And just like that, I can breathe again. But the air around us is still heavy, suffocating, and I feel like I need to do something to lighten it up, because we're drifting dangerously toward that place that I was afraid we'd go, where I say the right things that get all the wrong reactions.

I reach into my purse, and pull out the round pink dispenser that I'd bought on impulse at the grocery store, that's been sitting unopened next to my wallet all week. I tug on the sticker that keeps the container shut, and pull out an obnoxiously long strip of gum.

"What's that?" Edward asks, grinning, even though I'm sure he knows. He couldn't have gone through childhood and not know what this is.

"Bubble Tape." The pink stuff dangles between my fingers. "Want some?"

"You have Bubble Tape," he says under his breath as his lips turn up. It's more of a statement than a question, and I'm not even sure I was supposed to hear it.

"When I was a kid, I used to like to eat it like this." I take the long strip of gum and roll it tightly, until it's one big circle. I turn it sideways, and then take a bite.

"Why?" Edward asks, before he opens his mouth real wide and slowly lowers his piece in, chewing as he goes.

"I don't know," I garble, shrugging. "Why do we do anything?"

We sit quietly, blowing bubbles that get progressively bigger, like we're having some kind of unspoken contest. When I look over, Edward's got a pink blob that's bigger than his head hanging out of his mouth, and I puff air through my lips to try to catch up, because the competitor in me simply refuses to be outdone.

He sees what I'm doing out of the corner of his eye, and right when I think I've got him beat, the bubble explodes all over my face. We laugh as I smooth the sticky film off my cheeks, and the smile on his face makes the losing worthwhile, even though I'd never admit it.

I'm laughing, and he is too, when he plants his hand down next to my thigh and leans close to me.

"Bella," he says, kind of laughing still. "You have gum here." He points to the edge of his lips.

I should reach up and brush it off. I should thank him, and I should move away.

There are so many things that I should do.

But he's so close that I can smell the sugar on his breath, and those eyes, those eyes are dancing with laughter, and I've never seen him look like this, so close, so happy. I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't do anything but look at him.

And my heart is wild in my chest, like it's getting ready to pop, too. It gets bigger and bigger as Edward's hand reaches toward my face, and it wants to burst, it really does, just like the bubble that made this whole thing happen.

"Here," Edward says, as the hint of his fingers touch my face. They're so light, they could be anything. But they're not just anything, they're _him_, and he's touching me. I'm looking at his eyes, and his lips, his whole perfect bright face, as the pad of his thumb sweeps across my skin to get that little bit of gum that was left behind.

"Got it," he whispers, because this small space between us is too fragile for anything more than that.

"Thank you," I say, and as I pull back, the tips of his fingers fall from my cheek. It feels like a ghost, a breeze. Something I don't get to keep.

My face is so hot, my frenzied heart pumping blood that pools at all the obvious places on my skin. This closeness makes me nervous; I want to stay in it forever, and run far away at the same time. A light wind flutters through the trees, making the fading sun dance in shadows on the grass, and the creaking of iron against iron draws my eyes to the empty swings.

I need to move, and I have an idea.

"I bet I can go higher than you," I say, nodding toward the empty swing set.

It takes a few seconds for him to realize what I'm talking about, and by the time he raises his eyebrows to challenge me, I'm off. It's a short run, only about fifteen yards, but I have a head start, and that's all I need.

"Your shoe's untied," Edward yells from somewhere behind me. Close, but not too close. "You're gonna fall!"

I laugh. "I'm not falling for your trickery, Cullen!"

I scramble into the seat and push off of the sand-covered ground right as Edward grabs hold of the chains and sits down. He's nimbler than I am, and his long legs give him such a huge start that he's neck and neck with me on his very first pass.

"That's what you get for cheating," he says with a grunt as he flies by, going forward while I swing back.

"I didn't cheat!" I laugh, even though I'm totally losing. I stretch my toes out when I'm high in the air, but I still can't surpass him. And here I thought I had physics on my side.

My muscles are starting to burn, so I drag my sneakers across the sand like the quitter I am. Grit seeps in between my socks and my shoes as I slow, but it's no matter. I still can't wipe the smile off of my face. Edward's descent is more gradual, but his grin is just as big.

"I guess you learned your lesson," he says.

I turn on the swing, twisting the metal chains around and around. They crack and clang as I go, and when it's so wound up that my feet no longer touch the ground, I let go, and spin.

"I learned that he who has the longer legs and higher body mass wins in swinging contests."

Both of Edward's hands grip the chain closest to me. He rests his head against the links, and this dreamy, dopey look covers his face. It's probably from all the exertion, but he looks happy. So happy.

"You should swing more," I say, flexing my knees back and forth. "It suits you."

"I think it's the company more than the activity."

My stomach does some weird somersault in my belly.

"C'mon," I tease, hoping the words will right me; settle my insides and help me feel normal again. "You'd feel the same way if you were sitting here with…Jessica." I almost want to laugh, because even I know that's not true.

"Yeah, sure. She'd spend all day talking about Mike and popping her gum louder and louder and louder until I couldn't stand it anymore, and I'd take a header over those bushes just to get away," he says, laughing.

"Jessica pops her gum?" I've never noticed it, but obviously he has.

"Ugh, are you kidding me?" he says, letting his arms fall down at his sides. "All the time! How can you not hear it?" He's incredulous. "It sounds like a series of land mines designed specifically to drive me insane."

"No," I reply, laughing. "I've never noticed it, but I think you're being kind of a drama queen." I'm teasing, and just to drive the point home, I pop the small bit of gum I have left in my mouth.

His eyes grow wide, and he kicks a small wave of sand in my direction. "Not funny," he says.

"Actually, it is kind of funny. You should've seen your face."

I smile as I slide my fingers across the smooth metal chains, trying to focus on something so that I'm not distracted by the way Edward's looking at me. It's too intense; it magnifies everything.

"I really like you, Bella." He says this quietly, and even here in the fading daylight, I can see a little redness in his cheeks. I'm positive he can see a lot of redness in mine.

The sun peeks out through a split in the trees, a blazing orange before it sets, and it's warm on my face. The wind whips up, and small, light tendrils of hair brush across my cheek. The chains I grasp are cool beneath my fingertips. I don't know why I can feel so much right now.

"I really like you, too," I say, because there's no sense in hiding it. I like this Edward, and I like the Edward who drove me home the other day. I like the Edward who asked about my pictures, and the one who explained constellations to me under an ink-black sky. They make me realize what a complicated man he is, and how much I'd like to get to know every complication, every last bit of what makes him tick.

Edward laughs a little as he smiles at me and says, "Good."

I let the wind do the talking as I muster up the courage to break my self-imposed rule and ask him a question.

"How long have you been playing the piano?"

"As long as I can remember," he says, running the toe of his shoe back and forth through the sand. "Most parents have to tie their kids down to take piano lessons, but that's all I ever wanted to do. Sometimes my mom would let me eat dinner sitting on the bench."

Even if I couldn't see his smile, which is very much alive and lighting up his face, I'd be able to hear it in his voice.

"When I was ten, she bought me blank music sheets," he says, looking off into the distance somewhere. "I would write her these awful songs, and she'd just sit there beaming while I played them. Like I was Mozart or something."

"To her, you probably were," I offer. I might not be musical, but I'm sure I'm right. There was a time my own mother looked at me like that.

"Maybe. That's a nice thought."

I'm dying to ask him more, to make him finish this thing he's started. But his silence tells me that's all he's willing to share, and I have faith that if I let this go now, he might let me in a little more, some other night, on some other swing set.

I move my feet beneath me and twist myself up again, because I want to whirl and feel the wind on my face, to have something that takes the pressure off of this silence. I lift up my legs and let go, and the world around me blurs until the chains clang together and twist me slowly in the opposite direction.

Then Edward reaches out and stops me.

He gently grasps my left ankle and pulls me to him, resting my foot on his lap.

"Here, let me tie this," he says, pulling at my shoelaces. He's hunched over my shoe, but when he looks up at me I see tiny bits of green that peek out from beneath a fringe of long lashes. They make my heart act crazy in my chest. "You don't want to fall."

I have a hard time focusing, because I think I'm dizzy from spinning. "I'm not scared of falling," I say quietly, watching as he loops the strings around each other.

"Do you do that a lot?" His grin is so beautiful, and there's that friendly dimple I've seen so many times before. I want him to grin all the time, because that dimple is so cute.

"No," I say, letting my hair fall in my face a little bit. I'm feeling kind of shy all of a sudden.

When he's finished tying my shoe, he looks at it for a moment, and I stare at the way the white laces peek out from between his fingers. His hands are so warm, even through the layers of cotton and canvas; warmth that travels through my sock and up my leg and flows through me like a breath of air.

My foot slides off the far side of his thigh, bringing me closer to him. Maybe he's pulling, maybe I'm pushing. Does it matter? It feels good, and however close to him I am, I want to be closer still.

When he looks up at me, I can see_ him_. Not just his face and his hair, although I can see those things perfectly, but his eyes. The gold flecks that help make up that disarming green, and what's behind them, too. The friendliness, the ease; things I've never really seen in there before. The way his eyelashes brush against his brows as he blinks, because they're so impossibly long. His lips, so soft and pliable when they're grinning at me like this.

I've always wondered about Edward: why he is the way he is, why he does the things he does. But I'm wondering different things now, the scariest things. Like what those eyelashes would feel like fluttering against my cheek while his bubblegum breath covers my skin. Or how sweet those lips would feel pressed against mine, wishing me a good morning, or a good night, or anything in between.

We're looking at each other, and there's so many things I could say, but words are so unnecessary right now. Words would ruin this moment. My nerves lap against my skin, putting me on edge and making me shiver. It's pleasant at first, like flying, like way you feel when you're floating in a dream. But the waves get bigger and bigger, rising up through my stomach and into my chest, knocking against my lungs and making it hard for me to breathe.

It's like we're playing a game of chicken, to see who moves, who pulls away first.

And in the end, _I'm_ the chicken.

"I'm sorry," Edward says, looking at the ground as his swing turns forward. He pulls himself away, and guilt consumes me. I don't want him to feel like this is his fault at all. Once again, it's me. It's me, me,_ me_.

I reach over, and tug on his shirt sleeve so he'll look at me. "Don't be sorry," I say, giving him a warm smile.

This relaxes him, and I can almost see the tension release from his muscles. I think we've had about all we can handle for the night.

"I should probably go," I say, sounding more than a little reluctant. I _am_ reluctant, because…I like him. I'm surprised by how much I like him, and it scares me. I wanted to be someone he could talk to, but I never expected how much _I'd_ enjoy talking to _him_; how much he'd make me feel. Feelings I thought were long gone, that I've only felt once before in my life, for a person I don't even talk to anymore.

"Me, too," he says slowly.

He stands up and stretches as metal clangs against metal, exposing a tiny sliver of skin between his shirt and his shorts that's a magnet for my eyes. Luckily, I turn away before he catches me looking.

"I think I'm going to walk home," I say, wringing my hands together. I don't want to chance ending this night with another awkward wave toward the parking lot from my living room window. I'm so scared of messing this up.

I think I see the slightest hint of disappointment cross his face. "Are you sure it's safe?" he asks, looking toward the cluster of trees behind me, like they're just going to extend their limbs and wrap me up, and I'll never be seen again. "It's dark."

"Um," I say, tugging on my lip as I look back to where his eyes are focused. "This neighborhood has a pretty low crime rate, save for the odd ninja attack. But they tend to hide in trees, so I'll make sure I look up every few feet."

Edward bites his lip and laughs. "You are_ such_ a smart ass."

"I think you like that about me." It's sort of a bold thing to say, and I hope it doesn't make me sound like a jerk.

"Yeah, I think I do."

Nope, definitely not a jerk.

"I had a really good time." I'm suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands. I decide to put them in my pockets, just to be safe.

"Me, too. We should do it again sometime," he says. The hopefulness in his voice makes my insides turn to jelly, and I can't keep this goofy grin off of my face. It's the sweetest, unnerving feeling.

"Definitely," I reply.

"Soon."

"Okay."

We stand there just sort of looking at each other before I say, "Thanks for the coffee."

"Thanks for the gum."

"Thanks for tying my shoe." I let out this stupid, girly giggle that I don't even recognize.

"Thanks for failing to beat me on the swings over there." What a cocky little grin.

"All right," I sigh, laughing. "That's my cue to leave."

"Goodnight, Bella," he says, walking backwards a few steps.

"Goodnight."

I smile as I amble down the narrow sidewalk, past couples exercising, singles jogging. Past families playing catch in their front yards, and basketball in their driveways under bright floodlights. I'm so lost in my thoughts that it's not until I turn the corner into my neighborhood that I notice the high-pitched, barely-there squeaking.

Squeaking that I'm certain has been there for at least a little while. The faintest hint of headlights on the stop sign ahead of me confirms my suspicions, and I step off of the curb in between two parked cars, then turn to my left and see that old, beat-up Volvo with a familiar face behind the wheel.

"Busted!" I yell out. I'm sure he can hear me, but even if he can't, he can definitely see me.

The car slowly rolls to a stop in front of me, and I start walking while Edward drives.

"You're such a creeper!" I tease, smiling as he keeps pace with me in that wheezing Eurocar of his.

"I just wanted to make sure you got home all right!" he says, his arm hanging out of his rolled-down window.

"I said I wanted to walk!" I wish I could sound convincingly mad, but it's just not going to happen.

"You're so stubborn!"

"Says the guy who's following me at two miles per hour down a residential road. You would've been better off hoofing it." I'm sure the two of us are quite the sight: me walking, him driving, the two of us yelling and laughing at each other. If Emmett's shenanigans earlier this afternoon didn't have the neighbors talking, this will for sure.

"Okay, okay," he says. "Point taken."

"I'm home anyway," I reply, pointing at my apartment. "Mission accomplished."

This self-satisfied smirk creeps across his lips, and I roll my eyes.

"I'll see you on Monday." I tap the hood of his car as I turn toward my steps.

"Hey Bella?"

"Yeah?"

When I turn, his face is all bright eyes and an easy smile that shows off those perfect teeth. And that dimple. That dimple will be the death of me.

"This is the best day I've had in...in a really long time. Thank you for that."

There are so many words that could've come out of his mouth, and somehow he manages to say the perfect ones.

"I'm glad," I reply, feeling that nervous energy work its way through my system again.

"Well, goodnight," he says, waving.

"Night."

My heavy, uncooperative feet carry me to the stairs, and for the second time in a few months, I dread opening my front door. Only this time, it's not because I'm afraid of walking towards something. It's because I'm afraid of walking away from it.


	9. Ablation

**Chapter Nine**

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* * *

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_**Ablation:** __A process during which the atmosphere melts away and removes the surface material of an incoming meteorite._

* * *

I've never been one of those girly girls who spends much time on her hair or makeup, so when I step into the bathroom to give myself a final once-over before I walk out the door to start a new work week, I can't help but frown at the stranger looking back at me.

My hair is tousled in this just-got-out-of-bed kind of look, that, ironically, took me forty-five minutes to achieve. I like it, actually. It's different, but good. It's what's going on below the hair that makes me unhappy: darker than normal eyeshadow topped with thick black eyeliner—carefully winged at the edges—and soft, reddish lips that glide against each other when I rub them together.

For my first time seeing Edward after our night on the playground, I wanted to look alluring, like a brown-haired, flat-chested Marilyn Monroe. Instead, I look like Marilyn, the girl who'll give you the ride of your life in the back seat of your car in exchange for a twenty and a pack of Marlboros.

Somewhere between the Marilyns, I managed to lose _myself._

I tap my fingers against the countertop before I turn on the faucet, and I groan as I splash my face with warm water. I don't know what I'm doing; I'm all twisted up in knots. I want to run to Edward and away from him; wrap my arms around him, and keep him at arms' length. But the pull I feel toward him is winning out over all these scary feelings, and that's the scariest feeling of all.

When my face is fresh again, I apply my regular powder, blush, mascara, and gloss. I take a deep breath, and grin when I see _me_ again. I feel comfortable in my skin, so I stop fighting the small spark of excitement that's warm in my belly. It grows as I grab my bag and keys off of the counter, and gets bigger still as I sit in traffic on my way to work.

By the time I step into the lobby, that spark has turned into a fire, one that I'm positive is radiating off of me. It shows in my smile and the way that I walk; I can tell because even the people who usually ignore me in the hallways are wishing me a good morning.

I'm practically bouncing as I wait for the elevator, even though I feel like I don't need it to get me to the tenth floor. I could probably float, I feel so light. I even start humming under my breath, which is totally lame and completely unlike me, but I do it anyway.

If my life were a cartoon, cute chirping birds would be weaving flowers in my hair, and small, furry woodland creatures would be gathered at my feet, waiting for me to start dancing. It's at this point that I stop with the humming, because I realize that if I were watching a cartoon like that, I'd probably turn it off.

When I step into the office, Shelly grunts a halfhearted good morning in my direction as she thumbs through some kind of catalogue. I walk over to my desk, and once my computer boots up, I sift through my inbox and answer a few emails that I wasn't able to get to last week.

I'm typing a response when I hear the front door click shut. Anticipation rolls across my skin, making every nerve stand on end, and my fingertips feel electric. It's just a door, and it's just a click, but somehow I know that it's _his_ click.

Edward walks in like he usually does, all khakis and starched shirt, with his messenger bag slung carelessly across his shoulder. Only, unlike usual, he doesn't make a beeline for his desk. He drifts off course, towards _my_ desk, and whispers a soft, "Hi."

It's the simplest word—only two letters—but this morning, from him, those two letters have more effect on me than whole sentences or paragraphs. Books, even.

"Hi." I'm unable to stop the goofiest grin ever grinned from spreading across my face.

"Hi," he says again, the corners of his mouth turned up even bigger than mine.

"Hi."

He walks backwards most of the way to his seat, and we laugh as we smile at each other, because we've got to be the biggest dorks in existence.

I'm not sure if there's some requisite waiting period that needs to be observed before I can go to his desk, because I've never seen a 'How to approach the coworker you're hopelessly crushing on even though you really shouldn't be crushing on him' chapter in any office etiquette books. If there is such protocol, I'm going to break it, because I just _have_ to talk to him, to hear more than those two letters.

I grab the Tupperware container I brought with me out of the bottom of my bag, and head over.

"You managed to get through the rest of the weekend without being attacked by your neighborhood ninjas, I see." His bright eyes move so slowly from my toes to my face that my whole body shivers.

"I did," I reply, gliding my index finger along the corner of his desk. "And no one followed me home last night. Such a shame."

Edward laughs as he studies the container in my hands. "What's that?"

"I made cupcakes yesterday, and I thought you might like some," I say as I open the top.

"I'll have to get a plate or something." He looks around the top of his desk fruitlessly, then puts his hand on his stomach to hold his tie back as he bends over and pulls out his bottom drawer.

"Oh, um...they're all for you. You can just give this back when you're done."

His eyes widen as he looks at the plastic box, and he puts his hands on either side as he takes it from me, holding it like it's some kind of treasure.

"Really?" The right side of his mouth turns up in that crooked way that's so adorable, and there's that cute, irresistible dimple. I clasp my hands behind my back to keep myself from reaching out to touch it, because I'm becoming so attached to it that I'm worrying myself. I'd try to make him smile a thousand times just to see it.

"There are a lot here. How many did you make?"

"Enough." He probably doesn't realize that I saw him eyeing similar cupcakes in the bake case at the cafe on Saturday. He didn't buy one for whatever reason, so I decided to make them for him. Twelve, to be exact, although only ten of them made it into the office, but he doesn't need to know that.

This small, sweet smile pulls at his lips when he looks at them, like they're more than just cake and frosting. It's a smile that makes me feel like that was the best hour I've ever spent baking.

"Thank you," he says, his voice very soft and warm.

"You're welcome. I hope you like them."

I hear Garrett say his good mornings as he walks through the office, so I take that as my cue to head back over to my desk. When I get there, I notice that the screen of my phone is lit up, so I read the text that's displayed there as I sit down. It's from Emmett:

_Heads up before you get into work-Rose picked the four suits to play at the wedding._

Because I know that in my brother's limited vocabulary, the 'four suits' are the string quartet, my stomach sinks. I wonder if Edward knows he wasn't chosen? I'm in the middle of typing my question when a new text comes in.

_Our reception is going to sound like the sinking of the Titanic._

I grin, delete what I'd been writing, and type a new reply instead:

_Just to make sure it all ties in together, when I'm walking down the aisle I'll be sure to yell, "Iceberg, right ahead!", and point at that rock you put on Rose's finger. _

Not more than thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes again.

_I'm making a face right now. You know the one._

He's right, I do know that face. When we were kids, I used to hit him on the back when he'd make it, hoping it'd get stuck like that.

"I'm going downstairs to get some coffee. Wanna come?" Edward's voice startles me, and my phone fumbles out of my fingers. He smirks like he's just caught me with a secret, and I guess in some ways he has.

"Yeah, sure." I reach down and grab my wallet, trying not to seem too eager, then follow him out the door.

"Your soon to be sister-in-law called me last night," he says once we step into the elevator.

"She did?" I try really hard to sound nonchalant, but I fail miserably. I'm a horrible liar, always have been.

I can tell he's figured that out by the way he looks at me. "You already knew that, didn't you?"

"Not exactly. My brother sent me a text a few minutes ago to tell me they chose someone else," I say, feeling kind of awkward. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." He grins as he presses the button for the first floor, and my awkwardness melts away. "Carmen usually calls me and she's very businesslike and abrasive about the letdown. But Rose, she was, just...really nice."

"She _is_ really nice." Pride rises up through my chest, because not only am I glad that she was kind to Edward, I'm glad that my brother is marrying someone like her.

I cough, and rub my throat, which has started to feel a little achy all of a sudden.

"You all right?"

"Yeah," I reply, nodding. "I think I'm just thirsty."

We chitchat about trivial, meaningless things as we walk through the hallway to the cafe, and wind through the line to wait at the register. Once Edward pays for his coffee and I pay for mine, we congregate at the island where he begins his bizarre preparation ritual.

One packet of sugar. Stir. Taste. One container of cream. Stir. Taste. Another packet of sugar. Stir. Taste.

This time, I don't want to dump a rogue Splenda in there to see how he'll react. I just watch him, grinning like an idiot.

"What are you smiling at?" Edward asks, as he gathers up the three perfectly-torn white packets in front of him and throws them in the trash.

"Nothing." I shake my head before taking a sip of my drink.

He narrows his eyes, but he doesn't press me for information, because he knows I'm not going to spill.

We walk slowly back to the lobby, and the morning rush whirrs past us. The two of us stay close to the wall, away from the crowd in our own little world.

"I'm going to eat about eight of those cupcakes when we get upstairs," he says.

"The true breakfast of champions." I think he likes it when I tease him like this, because it turns his cheeks a cute red, and brings that smile out of hiding. Not that it seems to be hiding much anymore.

"When I was a kid," he says, after letting out a big, long breath, "my mom used to make cupcakes just like that. On Saturday afternoons when I'd come home from soccer games that my team always seemed to lose, I'd go kick the ball around our backyard. She'd call me inside, and the house smelled _so _good. We'd sit at the kitchen table and eat them while she gave me pointers."

His face is relaxed, and he looks so peaceful and happy.

"I don't think my mom even knows what soccer is." At least, she didn't when I used to play.

Edward laughs. "Turns out mine's a better goalie than I was."

"Ouch," I tease, giving his arm a gentle tap.

When he looks at me again, all the laughter and teasing is gone. "Things got off to a really bad start for me today, and those cupcakes were a nice thing for me to come in to. I know it's kind of a ridiculous memory to be so attached to-"

"It's not ridiculous," I say, shaking my head. "We all have our things."

He nods, then takes a sip from his cup before shrugging his shoulders. "Yeah, I guess."

That's when I decide to tell him the story behind one of mine.

"When I was about five, I started waking up really early on Sundays. I'd go downstairs and into the kitchen, where my mom would be standing at the counter rolling out dough and heating up oil in a giant pot. She'd stir all of this yummy smelling stuff in a saucepan, and I'd sit at the table and watch her. Once she'd fried the dough and finished the frosting, she'd always let me put the sprinkles on top of the donuts."

It's a wonderful memory that's so sad to remember when I think about how much we've grown apart since those days. Once puberty hit, our early morning whispers and giggles turned into late-night screams and shouts, and instead of picking me up so I could reach the sink to wash my hands, she pushed me away from her. So very far away.

"And you still love them," Edward says, pulling me out of that unhappy place.

"I still love them."

"Is that something you two still do?"

"What, make donuts?" I laugh as I shake my head. "No. You have to be on speaking terms with someone in order to make pastries with them."

"Did you two have a fight?"

I sigh, trying to think of the best way to phrase my answer.

"You don't have to answer me," he says quickly, looking down at his feet. "I'm being nosy."

"It's okay." Unfortunately, the history between my mother and me is part of the Bella Swan package. Edward grins, and seems relieved by my answer. "Yes, a pretty big one. She just…she doesn't want to let me be my own person, or live my own life. She's afraid to let me make my own mistakes."

"Controlling, huh?"

"Um, a _little_," I reply sarcastically. "It's a long story, probably better told in a less crowded place, where I can scream and throw things."

"All right," he says, grinning. "We can make that happen."

"I look forward to it." The way he's looking at me, all wide eyes and anticipation, makes me want to give him a leather-bound edition of my life story. There isn't a single secret I want to keep from him.

"Do you still have cupcakes with your mom?"

He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. "No."

"Long story?"

"Kind of. Have you ever noticed how much we talk about food?"

"Well...not until you mentioned it. We should go out and get some sometime." Oh, God. What is my mouth doing, saying these crazy things?

"Oh," his face falls, and I feel like a stupid,_ stupid _girl. "Um...I don't really like..."

_You_. He's going to say, 'I don't really like _you_ like that,' and I feel like if he does, everything inside of me might just stop moving for a few seconds. Minutes, maybe. Someone will have to carry me into the elevator, and won't that be mortifying?

"Forget I said anything." I try to smile, but my voice is so shaky.

"No. No, look," he says. He stops walking so we can have this conversation, and for some reason this makes me feel infinitesimally better. "It's just restaurants, I don't..." He's so flustered. He looks on the outside the way I feel on the inside.

"Are restaurants your Abraham Lincoln?" It's a shot in the dark, but it's all I've got. We start walking again, and that takes some of the pressure off of the conversation.

Edward looks down at the ground for a few seconds before he finally answers. "Yeah, something like that."

So, he doesn't like restaurants, and he's a sandwich de-constructer. Pretty weird, but then again, I can't stand to look at five-dollar bills, so...

"I can cook, and you can come over for dinner if you want to." I wish I wasn't holding a coffee cup, because I really need to do something with my hands. Like twist them behind my back, or grab onto a passerby so he can take me away in case this all goes horribly wrong. Or, horribly wrong-er.

"I would love that," he says in one long gush of air. "How about Friday?"

"Yeah, Friday's good," I say, just a _little_ too eagerly. "I thought you were going to tell me you didn't-"

"No, Bella," he says, shaking his head. "I _definitely_ want to. Lately, talking to you is the best part of my day."

He winks at me as he leans forward to press the up button, and I sigh. How can he do that? How can he say words like that and pretend like they weren't the sweetest thing? He just drops a bomb on me and then goes about his day, pushing elevator buttons, acting like he's not trying to steal my heart right out of my chest.

When the doors open and we step inside, I notice the way his shirt puffs out right where it's tucked into his pants. It's a little wave of fabric, and the bottom of his green tie rests on it. There's a space, right between the fabric and the tie, that's perfectly sized for my hand. My hand that wants to slip in there and pull on that tie, so my lips that need his lips against them can finally have their way.

Would he let me kiss him?

He would, I know it. Once he got over the shock of accidentally dropping hot coffee down his leg.

I wonder if this elevator has an emergency stop, and if an alarm sounds when-

"Hey, Bella!" Jess's ponytail swings back and forth as she steps into the elevator with us. "Edward," she says dryly.

Edward gives her this tight grin that's fake as all hell, and I turn my head so that Jess can't see my face. That's when she does it.

_Pop._

Edward's eyes shut tight, and his free hand clenches into a fist. He looks like he's doing some kind of meditative breathing, and I just want to laugh.

_Pop. _

_Pop, pop, pop. _

On the sixth pop, I _do_ laugh. Uncontrollably.

"What?" Jess asks, turning toward me with a little bit of attitude.

"Nothing," I reply, shaking my head. "I was just thinking of this thing someone told me."

Edward glares at me, and I bite my lip.

When the elevator opens, we follow Jessica through the office's front door. As we're passing the copy room, Edward asks if my throat is better.

There's still an ache when I swallow. "Yes," I lie.

I tuck into my work for the rest of the morning, determined not to let this thing with Edward affect my performance. I don't even look up until it's nearly lunchtime, and he's walking toward me, carrying his bag and the container I gave him this morning.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, shifting his bag on his shoulder. "I have to go home and settle into a cupcake coma."

I laugh, but it's strained, because I want so badly to ask where he's going, why he's leaving. But I don't. Not yet.

I nod. "Okay."

"These are delicious," he says, smiling that soft smile that's wearing me down. Oh, who am I kidding? It's worn me down already, there's no point in denying it.

"I'm glad you like them."

"Bye," he whispers, lifting his hand in a small wave.

"Bye."

He ducks into Garrett's office and closes the door. When he comes out a few minutes later, he waves at me one more time before he leaves.

The rest of the day drags.

The next morning, I feel like my head is a bowling ball, or an anvil, pressing into the softness of my pillow. It's so heavy and throbbing that I'm surprised I'm still level on my bed. All I can do is turn and let out a dry cough that rumbles through my aching chest, and rest my hot cheek against my arm.

I sniffle, and while my nose isn't stuffed up, I can tell it will be soon. I roll over, let my arm hang off the side of the bed, and let out an experimental moan. I sound pathetic. I _feel _pathetic. I reach for the phone on my nightstand, and call Jessica to let her know that I won't be in. Pathetic or not, she doesn't have any sympathy for me anyway.

I sleep most of the day, and fitfully through the night. I'm miserable if I lie on my right side, and even more miserable if I lie on my left. I twist the ends of two tissues into soft points, then stuff one up each of my nostrils to keep that annoying drip at bay. I roll onto my back and breathe through my mouth, hoping that nothing flies in there overnight to asphyxiate me. I read once that we swallow an average of twelve bugs per year in our sleep, and with my luck, tonight will be the night.

When my alarm pulls me out of the little bit of sleep I could manage, I call and leave Jessica a voicemail, explaining that I won't be in today, either. I probably sound like I'm speaking some kind of foreign language, because my cold has gotten so much worse overnight. My 'n's and 'm's somehow sound like 'b's and 'd's now. "I'b nod cobing id," I say. I'm confident that she'll be able to figure that one out.

I call and leave a message at my doctor's office, practically begging for an appointment, even though I'm kind of glad they don't answer, because I don't really feel like putting pants on. Or leaving the house.

Throughout the day I meander from my makeshift bed on the couch to my actual bed in my bedroom, and back again. No matter what I do, I can't get comfortable.

By six o'clock, I'm haphazardly lying on the couch, stuck somewhere between sleeping and awake. My stomach growls, and I try to decide if I'm hungry enough to get up and make myself something to eat. Turns out, I'm not. I groan, sounding like a zombie with laryngitis, then whine and let my head fall limply back on the pillow.

I reach over to grab my last box of tissues, and most of its contents are overflowing from the trash can I brought out here with me. The box feels dangerously lighter every time I pull one out, and soon I'll have to resort to blowing my nose on toilet paper. An earlier inventory of my stock showed that I only have two rolls. Even in my hazy state, I can figure out that if I keep up my frequency of blowing, and only use three sheets per, I won't have to leave the house for supplies until at least Friday.

Friday, when I'm supposed to have my date with Edward, which will now most likely have to be postponed. Communicable disease is such a cruel bastard.

I turn on the television for some background noise, because I'm tired of listening to my incessant wheezing. My eyelids are heavy, even though I can't seem to rest.

A few minutes later, there's a knock on my door that sounds like a jackhammer assaulting my sensitive hearing. I roll over and cover my ears, figuring that it's probably just a neighborhood kid trying to sell candy to go to cheerleading camp or something. I don't answer it, and promise that I'll donate a whole paycheck to my kid's school should I ever have one, if whoever it is that listens to these kinds of requests will make the knocking stop.

Unfortunately, it doesn't.

"I'm coming," I say. My voice is all hoarse, and I'm still speaking that weird 'cold' language. I maneuver my legs off the couch and into the vicinity of my pants, which are lying in a pool on the floor. My head throbs as I bend over to pull them up, and I have to put one hand on the coffee table to steady myself.

The knocking gets louder and louder, and I'm going to scream, using what little bit of voice I have left to-

"Bella? It's Edward. Are you okay in there?"

Oh, _God_.

Fate is such a miserable bitch, because of course the last person I would _ever_ want to see me sick is here. To see me. Sick.

"I know you're in there. I can hear the TV."

"I said, I'm coming." I turn off the television, throw the remote on the couch, grab my tissues, and shuffle across the floor.

I fling the door open, for no other reason than to stop the knocking, and Edward's eyes widen. My brain, in its cloudy, sick state, slacked off and completely forgot to remind me that I look like utter hell.

"You look _awful_."

And, you know, he's right. I _do_ look awful. But I don't need to hear that.

So, I chuck my nearly-empty box of tissues at his head. He's just quick enough to shield himself, and the box bounces off of his folded arms and onto the patio.

After he picks up the box, he at least has the decency to look contrite. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"It's okay," I croak, my voice sounding like I've had a three-pack-a-day habit for the last fifty years.

His mouth opens and shuts quickly, like he was about to comment on my voice too, but thought better of it. Smart guy, no wonder I like him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like something you stepped in while you were walking through the grass on your way up here."

He grins a little, and I step back and hold the door open so that he can come in. I'd hoped his first visit to my place would be under better circumstances, but that's life, isn't it?

I sniffle, and Edward hands me the box of tissues I threw at him earlier. I take one and wipe my throbbing nose. I probably look like Rudolph, but I'm too scared to find out.

"You're so flushed," he says quietly, reaching up to gently press his palm to my forehead. I lean into it, feeling the relief of the temperature difference between his skin and mine. His hand moves down to my cheek, where his thumb lightly brushes the hollow beneath my eye. "You haven't been sleeping."

His voice has this sympathetic inflection that makes me want to give in to my misery, and I close my eyes because I'm afraid I'm going to cry. "No. I can't get comfortable." My voice is soft, and shaky.

"C'mon," he says, wrapping his arm around me. "I'm going to take you to emergency care."

I _hate_ emergency care. I hate it even more than I hate sleepless nights and stuffed-up noses. "No," I say, but it sounds more like a whine. "I have a doctor's appointment in the morning. I'll be okay until then."

His arm slides across my shoulder, and comes to rest on my upper arm. It relaxes me, and makes my head feel less like a drum. He looks at me, his eyebrows scrunched together like they usually are when he's thinking, and I decide that if he puts up a fight I'll go.

"Okay." He sounds unsure, but he puts his bag down. He takes a deep breath then puts his hands on his hips, the same way he does at work when he's in problem-solving mode. Then he loosens his tie, and unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves before rolling them up near his elbows.

"Do you have spare blankets?"

I point at the large drawer at the bottom of the entertainment center, and follow him into the living room. I slump down into the chair, because that throbbing in my head is getting stronger, and I feel like it'll get better if I'm a little closer to horizontal.

Edward sees the small trash can next to the couch that's overflowing with tissues, and, saint that he is, starts to pick them up.

Gah, I'm mortified. "Don't," I say, reaching my hand out, as if I have go-go gadget arms or something. "I'll clean that up."

He turns and looks at me over his shoulder with a small, kindhearted grin. "Bella," he says softly. "Don't worry about this. I don't mind."

If I weren't feeling so crappy, I'd probably argue with him, but I just can't find the strength to do it.

When he's finished, he pulls two blankets out of the drawer and places them on the coffee table. Then he takes all the pillows off of the back of the couch, and drapes the larger of the two blankets across it, tucking the edges between the back and the wall, and then underneath the cushions on the bottom.

He takes the pillows I'd thrown on the floor earlier in a restless fit, fluffs them up until they're like new again, and puts them on the far end so it'll be easier for me to see the television. He spreads the smaller blanket out on top of his handiwork, and when he's finished, he takes the trash and the dirty dishes that are scattered everywhere into the kitchen.

The little bed he made for me looks so inviting, but I feel gross and don't want to sully it with my old pajamas and disgusting hair. Maybe I'll sit here for a few minutes and work up the energy to go take a shower.

"Are you hungry?" he asks while he stands at the sink, ducking down so I can see him in the space between the cabinet and the counter that separates us.

"Yes," I say. "But I don't have much." I barely have anything, really. I haven't had a chance to get groceries, and I've been steadily working my way through the contents of my refrigerator ever since the bubonic plague became my constant companion.

I hear him opening and shutting the cabinets, and then it's quiet. A minute later, he steps out of the kitchen, wipes his hands dry on my dishtowel and says, "Will you be okay while I go to the store?"

It's sweet the way he sounds so concerned, like I'm too helpless to be left alone. Although, if I had found someone in the state I was in when he got here, I'd probably think that too.

"I'll be all right," I say, somehow managing a smile. "Can you hand me my bag?"

Once I have it in my lap, I dig through the mess and finally find my wallet, all the way at the bottom. Please have cash, please have cash…

"Here." I hand him the two twenties I had in there. "This should be enough." I can't really be bothered to put together a list right now. Besides, I trust him enough to know that he won't bring me back anything too disgusting. I hand him my house keys too, so he can lock the door, and I won't have to get up when he returns.

He looks at the money in his hands, rubbing the two bills together before putting them in his wallet.

"I'll be back," he says, as he grabs his keys off of the kitchen counter.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you bring me some ice cream, please?"

"What kind?"

I shrug. "The frozen kind."

"Sure," he says, smiling softly as he walks out the door.

When he leaves, I move over to try out my newly-made makeshift bed. But, as I suspected, I can't get comfortable, and won't be able to until I'm clean. I should've made myself shower earlier, because I'm sure the warm steam will make my head feel better. So, I trudge into the bathroom and turn on the faucet.

I cringe when I look in the mirror as the water gets hot. Edward was right, I really _do_ look hideous. The dark circles beneath my eyes weigh them down, and my nose is as red as a Coke can. I groan as I run my fingers through my hair, which was in a ponytail at one point. Now only half of it remains in the elastic, and I look like I did when I was in elementary school after being called in from racing the boys across the playground during recess.

I step inside the shower, and the water is soothing, even though it teeters on the edge of being _too_ hot. I lather, rinse, and repeat, and after a few minutes, I can breathe so much better than I could before. I stand under the stream of water until my fingers are pruney and my sinuses are clear, but when I step out, my legs are kind of shaky and I have to steady myself against the counter.

After I dry my hair, I open the door, and walking out of the bathroom's humid air feels cool against my warm skin. Even though my senses are still a bit dull, I can smell something good coming from the other side of my door. I hurry to put on new pajamas so I can investigate.

When I walk out into the living room, I see Edward standing at the stove, stirring. He turns to look at me and smiles, so dopey and cute, and even the little bit of rejuvenation I feel from the shower makes me able to smile back at him.

He's not paying attention to what he's doing, and an "ouch" carries over the sound of the spoon clinking against the pot. Edward sticks the side of his pinky in his mouth.

"Are you okay?"

"Just a little burn," he says, blowing on his finger. "I got some chicken noodle soup from the deli. I hope you don't mind; I found a pot, and-"

"I don't mind." The fact that he's made himself at home here is kind of endearing.

"Where are your bowls?"

"They're in the cabinet next to the refrigerator."

I lean over and turn on a lamp, then stretch my legs out and pull the blanket over me, and settle back against the fluffed-up pillows. I turn my cheek against the cool fabric and sigh. This is so much better than just lying on the plain old couch.

When I open my eyes, I see a mini drugstore set up on the coffee table: boxes of tissues, cold medicine, cough drops, and two small jars are neatly arranged on the top. Despite the fog in my head and the ache in my throat and chest, I grin.

"Are you feeling better?" Edward asks. He's appeared next to me holding a bowl of hot soup, so I sit up and fold my legs beneath me, careful to keep myself covered with this soft, soft blanket.

I nod as I take the bowl from him. "A little bit, thank you." I want to tell him it's because he's here, that he's made this whole miserable thing so much better, but that seems like it might be too cheesy. "Aren't you going to have some?"

"Nope," he says, sitting down so close to me that my knees nearly rest on his left thigh.

I shake my head, because I know he's got to be hungry. I'd bet my last evil five-dollar bill that he came straight here from work and hasn't had dinner.

"Have some soup Edward," I say, before blowing on my spoon. And just so he doesn't try to argue with me, I add, "I'm not eating until you do, too."

_That_ gets him, so he trudges over to the kitchen and gets himself a bowl. When he returns, he sits in the same spot he vacated, and we quietly eat our soup. Shortly after we finish, he stands up and takes our bowls into the kitchen. I lie down as he washes them, because the goodness of the shower is slowly beginning to give way to the ickiness I felt earlier.

Edward's gone for what seems like a long time, even though I hear continuous movement in the kitchen; glass clanking against glass, plastic bags rustling, and water being run. He asks me if I want some ice cream, and I tell him no. It feels like I've used up all the energy I had left eating the little bit that I did. Now I understand why babies sleep all the time.

Edward turns out the kitchen light, then comes and sits on the edge of the couch, turned toward me. His knee is so close to my face that I could probably rest my head on it and fall asleep.

"Here," he says, as he unscrews a tiny blue jar. "Put this under your nose. It'll help you breathe."

I can smell the menthol radiating from it the second the top comes off. I take it from him and hold it underneath my nose, and take a deep breath. He's right. It does help, even if it makes my eyes water.

"Not like that. You have to stick your finger in there and put it on your skin," he says, laughing. He rubs his thumb across his upper lip, just in case my brain has stopped functioning and I can no longer comprehend verbal commands.

Normally I'd be mortified to do this, but the man cleaned up my snotty tissues, and brought me chicken soup for crying out loud. So I swoop my finger into the gooey stuff, then slather it right below my nostrils.

While my skin tingles and my nose clears, he cracks open a bottle of red NyQuil and pours some into a tiny plastic cup. I take it from him, and swallow it down in one quick gulp. Edward looks concerned when I grimace as the stuff coats and burns my throat.

"I don't know why they bother making flavors. It all tastes like ass anyway," I say.

"What's two seconds of ass taste when it gives you a few hours of sleep?"

Well, he's got a point there.

"Lie back," he says as he stands up, and I feel this panic coursing through me, because I think he might be getting ready to leave.

I don't want him to leave yet.

Edward walks into the kitchen, and comes back out holding my thermometer. He presses a button on it that makes the thing beep, then says, "Open up."

He slides the thermometer under my tongue, and goes to rinse out the NyQuil cup.

When he sits back down, I attempt to form coherent words around the plastic stick in my mouth, and Edward shakes his head, smiling.

"Shhh," he says, reaching over and tucking the blanket in under me, and that simple gesture makes my heart flip flop around in my chest. When the thermometer beeps, he slowly takes it out of my mouth. "One-oh-two." He gently presses his palm against my forehead again, and my eyes close slowly. "I brought some water for you in case you get thirsty."

"You're really good at this," I say. "I think you missed your calling to be a doctor."

He sighs, and slides his hands across his thighs several times. Then this sad, wistful smile finds its way across his lips. "I almost became one."

Even though my eyes are heavy, with four simple words, I'm wide awake. "You did?"

"Yep." He nods, and rests his elbows on his knees. "It's sort of a...traditional vocation for Cullen men. My dad was a surgeon."

His father _was _a surgeon_. _"The job didn't suit him, either?"

Edward rubs his hands together, takes a deep breath, and the numbers on my cable box's green digital clock change twice before he finally speaks. "It did," he says, and that sad, wistful smile comes back. "He, um...he died when I was fourteen." The way his whole body tenses at his admission tells me that this is something he rarely talks about, if ever.

He looks at me, lips shut tight in a thin line, his face all stoic, I can see a bit of that fourteen-year-old boy still living in the man beside me. I want to tell them both how sorry I am, but words just seem so trite right now, and what are they anyway? Everyone says them; they roll off your tongue into oblivion, and in your memory you're never quite sure if you heard things the way you thought you did.

Instead, I give him something that I think very few people have.

A hand.

I turn on my side and slowly slide my fingertips down the soft, smooth skin on the underside of his forearm. I think both of us stop breathing, just for a second, and Edward's muscles contract as my hand makes its slow journey toward his.

Our hands are meant to hold one another; our palms fit perfectly together, like key and lock, and my fingers slide easily between his. Edward's breathing is shaky as his thumb sweeps softly across my skin, and he looks down at me like I'm the most precious thing he's ever seen. There's no smile or sadness; just brown lost in endless green, and a gentle squeeze that sends a thrill down my spine.

"What happened?" My voice is barely there. It's a whisper, but not because I'm sick.

He hesitates, searching my eyes for something. I don't know what he's looking for, but I keep mine locked on his, silently begging him to open up to me. Just a little bit, even though I'm sick. He's quiet for a long time; a minute, maybe more. All I can hear is the way my pulse echoes through my ear that's pressed against the pillow, and I notice that the left side of his shirt collar is wrinkled. I can see the fabric of his tie beneath it.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, Edward," I say, gliding my thumb along the back of his hand. My cold dulls my voice, and it makes me sound a lot less frustrated than I really am, which is a good thing, I guess. I wish he felt like he could trust me with _something _about his life, because if he can't, then what in the hell am I doing?

He's quiet, mulling things over. Edward is so intense when he thinks, and his eyes are brilliant when he finally turns my way.

"You make me want to do a lot of things I never thought I would," he breathes.

"I just wanna know you."

"Why?" He sounds surprised, like those words were the last thing he ever expected to hear.

"Because, when I see that crease you get between your eyebrows when you're thinking, I want to know what puts it there. You have, like, ten different smiles, and I want to know what makes each one of them work. You make me laugh, and look forward to work, and...I want to make sure that all of that's not for nothing." I want to protect my heart, in case you're not who I think you are, even though I just laid it out there for you to stomp all over. "But if you aren't ready to trust me with it, then..." It's not an ultimatum or anything close. It's just a thought, a question.

He looks at our hands twined together, and his palm slides up and down the back of my arm, making me shiver. Just when the silence becomes unbearably loud, he takes a deep breath, and looks at me.

His fingertips move gently across the back of my hand, barely there, but still so heavy. They make my heart skip every other beat, and it really can't be doing this, not when I need all of my strength to fight the cold from Hell. But his touch is so soft and tender that it feels like a dream, and I'd let my heart skip all the way to New York as long as I get to keep feeling this feeling.

Edward takes this deep breath like he's steeling himself for something, gathering courage, and I nearly begin to shake with nervous energy.

"My dad was an All-State basketball player in high school. He always talked about it; his old trophies lined the den," he says, shifting his body so that he's closer to mine. "I was never anywhere near as good as he was. But I tried. I joined a summer league, and every night I'd practice out in our driveway."

I nod, and swallow against my raw throat; I don't even want to reach over for a cough drop.

"He worked odd hours, and wasn't home all that often, but he surprised me by coming out to practice with me that night." Edward bites his lip and looks down at the floor before he continues. "It was just this...this_ perfect_ night. Stars, and cool breeze. He laughed a lot; ragged on me about my defense. He always pushed me to be better, you know? It wasn't just about basketball. He wanted me to be a good man."

I smile at the admiration in his voice, imagining the kind of man who had earned it. Was he all legs, and bronze hair, and green eyes like his son? Did he hide such a kind heart beneath a hard exterior, too?

"My mom called us in for dinner, and Dad said we weren't gonna go in until he scored on me. And the harder he tried, the harder I fought. I defended the hell out of him, blocked all his shots. I was showing off, trying to make him proud, so I stole the ball and pushed off of him, and it went right in. Just a swoosh; nothing but net."

His voice cracks a bit on the last sentence, and even as he looks at me, his eyes are very distant. Dread tightens my chest, because even though all of this has already happened, I don't know what's coming or when. I feel like I'm reliving it with him.

"The ball bounced away and when I ran to get it, I was talking shit, acting like an ass. Showboating. When I turned around, he was on the ground, just...clutching his chest," he says, patting the area above his heart emphatically. "I'm running around laughing because I beat him, and he's ten feet away from me, dying, and it took me too long to see it. The way he looked at me...his eyes. I won't ever forget them. When he taught me how to do CPR, I bet the very last thing he ever thought was that someday I'd be using it on him."

I can't stop the tears that fall, and I turn my face into the pillow to hide them, to wipe them away. Is his heart breaking like mine is now? How is he doing this? Just living and breathing and telling me these life-changing things? The strength he has, I can't even imagine how deep it runs.

"Edward, I-"

"It's twelve years later, and I still wonder what would've happened if I'd just let him make one of those shots."

His soft words and the unanswered question in his eyes show me the cracks he never lets anyone see, the broken parts that come out at inconvenient, unplanned moments like these. I want to help heal those cracks, and bring those broken parts together so that maybe they can mend, to show him there are so many good, _good_ things in this world.

There's no way I'm letting go of him now. So, even though I have to twist my upper body at an odd angle to do it, I bring my free hand up to his face and cup his cheek. He leans into me, his eyebrows knit together, and he closes his eyes.

I feel his soft breaths across my wrist, and the slight stubble on his cheek lightly scratches my skin as my hand slides down to his chin, turning his head so he'll look at me. I move the backs of my fingers across the length of his jaw, hoping to comfort him so he'll really hear what I'm about to tell him. Take it to heart, and live by it, every day.

"The same thing would've happened, Edward. Whether it was in your driveway, your house, a car, or an airplane. The very same thing would've happened."

He looks down at our hands, and nods.

"How did you even deal with all of that as a kid?"

"I had to be strong for my mom," he whispers through a sad smile. "She met my dad in elementary school. You love someone for that long, and you watch them die like that...I think he took a part of her with him. She got better, you know, but...she's never been the same."

What about sons whose fathers slip away in their arms?

"How could she be?" I sniffle, and reach over to grab a tissue. I try to subtly blow my nose, because I don't want him to think that he's upset me too much, or that I need to rest. Even though fatigue is pulling at me from all sides, everywhere, there's no way I can let him stop now. Not when he's finally showing me a little piece of who he is.

"We had really nice neighbors," he says, running his hands through his hair. "The people who heard all the yelling and sirens that night. They noticed that my mom's car rarely left our driveway, and they waved at me when I rode my bike back from the grocery store. I'd weave back and forth, barely able to stay up, because all the food I could carry was in heavy bags hanging from my handlebars."

Of course it was. Because he wasn't even old enough to drive.

"They'd bring casseroles over, and tell me how to heat them up. Sometimes someone would mow our lawn, or offer to take me to the movies. But when they talked to me, it was different. Every conversation began with, 'How are you feeling, Edward?' They'd pat my arm or my shoulder, and talk softly, like I was some kind of wounded animal. Like I was less than them. Too fragile to be treated like a normal person. The second they'd see me, their eyes would go soft, and they'd look like they wanted to cry, because I was poor, _poor_, pitiful Edward with a dead father and a mother who cried all the time."

No one's ever needed to look at me like that, and it makes me feel like the most awful, lucky person in the world.

"I hate that fucking look," he says, as his muscles flex beneath my fingers. "So I just kept everything to myself, and when they asked me how I was, I lied and said I was fine."

I try to relax, to make sure that I'm not making that face he hates before I say, "I think most kids would have done the same thing."

"I guess I just thought if I said it enough it would be true, and maybe I thought I _was_ fine. That _we_ were fine. Because, I was the man of the house, and I made sure that Mom ate and had clean clothes, and every day her crying got softer, and she'd stay awake a little bit longer than she slept.

"I never slept very well, though, because I kept having nightmares. But I thought I was handling it okay. Every night, when Mom would get quiet, I'd go out on the balcony and look through my telescope—my dad's and mine—trying to find all the stars and constellations that he had shown me. I thought that maybe, if I kept doing things that we did together, through all the magnification I might be able to see some sign that he was still out there. That he could see me, and knew how empty everything was without him."

I can tell how empty he feels, even now; worlds away from that place, sitting here in my living room. He rubs his palm across the back of his neck, and takes a sip of water.

"I used to lay out there on a cot, because it was the only place I felt like myself again. Those were the nights I could sleep peacefully, because...being outside made me feel like he wasn't so far away." He lets out this short puff of air, so jaded and bitter that it makes my eyes sting. "It was stupid," he mutters.

"Don't say that," I whisper. "It wasn't stupid at all." It's the most heartbreaking, beautiful thing.

He nods, but doesn't say anything for a long time.

"All that time I spent alone and thinking about all the things I didn't know how to do that could've saved Dad made me determined to learn how to fix some other kid's father. It was all I thought about, all I worked toward; becoming a doctor. So, once I got my undergrad degree, I went off to Dartmouth—my dad's alma mater—for med school."

It's so amazing to me, the things people hide. All the history that happens that makes them who they are, and yet you can see them day by day and be completely oblivious to it. How easily they can show you what they want to, and keep the rest hidden inside.

"It never felt right, not once, even from the beginning. But this one day, in ECM, we were practicing incisions. I volunteered to go first, and I was standing there with the scalpel," he says. His cheeks flush and he seems embarrassed when he turns to look at me. "And my hand wasn't shaking over some stranger's chest; it was my father's, or someone's son, or brother. I couldn't disconnect myself from it. I turned, and threw up all over…the girl next to me, and then on the floor."

The cold medicine is starting to take hold of my body, and every blink of my tired eyes comes quicker and lasts longer.

"You dropped out?" My words are slow. Even _they_ sound tired.

"Not right away. I was stubborn, and I didn't want to give up. It was such a waste..."

"It wasn't a waste if the time you spent learning how to be a doctor made you realize you didn't really want to be one."

"I've always had the worst timing."

"Bad timing for one thing can be great timing for something else," I say, fighting to get every word out. The menthol stuff he gave me is starting to wear off, and my nose is getting stuffed up again.

"Maybe. I just hope he's still proud of me...in spite of everything."

I wait for him to confess more, but it seems like he's done for the night. In this respect, he has excellent timing, because I don't think I can hang on much longer. "Here," he says, picking up the glass of water he brought over earlier. "Drink some of this for me, please."

He pulls me up, and I take several quick gulps. Even though the water is room temperature, the liquid is cool going down my throat.

"Edward?" I hand him the glass as I lower myself back down onto my pillows.

"Yeah?" His grin is light, and how can he look like that after telling me such heavy things?

"Wherever your dad is, it would be impossible for him not to be bursting with pride for the man you turned out to be."

He nods, and whispers a soft, "Thank you." For the first time tonight, his eyes start to water.

"Thank you for talking to me," I say, punctuating the sentiment with a huge, obnoxious yawn. I want to tell him that I'll hold onto his secrets forever, but somehow I think he knows that already.

"Thank you for listening...for _wanting _to know. And thank you for telling me about your mother the other day." He gently rubs my hand between the two of his before he lets go, and the second my skin leaves his, I miss it. "It's late," he says. "I should go so that you can get some rest."

"Do you live nearby?" My voice sounds slow, and like it's underwater.

"I don't have to go too far." His sounds like that, too. "I'm going to lock the bottom lock on my way out."

"Ninjas," I mutter.

He laughs. "Yeah. And I left my cell phone number on the kitchen counter. If you need anything, call me, and it's yours. Okay?"

My heavy eyes close one last time, and I think I feel his fingers brush across my cheek.

"I'm sorry if I get you sick," I mumble.

"I never get sick." It's a whisper really, and I'm not even sure I heard it right.

"Hmmm?"

"Get some sleep, Bella," he says, so close to my ear that I can't mistake it. His breath is warm on my skin, and I want to reach out to him, to make him stay with me.

I barely hear the door click shut before I turn my face into my pillow, take a deep breath, and let my exhaustion pull me under.


	10. Binary Asteroid

**Chapter Ten**

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_**Binary Asteroid:** __Two asteroids that revolve around each other and are held together by the gravity between them._

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"Wait. You're going on a _date_?" Emmett sounds like the only thing more impossible would be a box of hair winning the Nobel Peace Prize. There's too many miles separating us for me to be able to smack him, but I'd like to. A lot.

"Yeah, can you believe it? If you look out your window, you might see some pigs flying."

"Right now?"

"No, you moron. I was joking," I say, clenching the steering wheel tightly with my right hand.

"About the date?"

"About the _pigs_," I sigh. "Is Rose there? Did you hit your head?"

"Not recently," Emmett says sarcastically, like _I'm_ being the jerk here. "Who are you going out on this date with?" He keeps enunciating the word 'date,' as if it doesn't really mean what I think it does.

"Edward."

"The Billy Joel wannabe?"

My fingers flex, and I roll my eyes. "The pianist you rejected for your wedding."

"That guy you work with?"

"His name is _Edward_," I say sternly, because 'that guy' doesn't make me feel like my heart's pulling my body around by a leash. _Edward_ does.

"The _Edward_ you work with?" He sounds like he used to when we were kids, and he used to harass me in the backseat of the car during long trips. I wish Dad were here to referee this match.

"Yes."

"Bella," he warns. He's talking to me like I'm a child, like he just caught me trying to shove a piece of elbow macaroni up my nose or something.

"Emmett." I'm not surprised the conversation is taking this turn. Emmett's my brother, and he's always looked out for me; he wouldn't be the guy I love if the subject didn't come up. Even so, I've thought about the ramifications of what I'm doing, and I don't need him reprimanding me. "You don't have to say it, okay?"

I know that dating a coworker is dangerous ground, and that the beginning of a romantic relationship with Edward will most likely lead to the end of our work relationship. It's crossed my mind more times than I care to admit, but I don't want to get too far ahead of myself here.

It takes a minute for him to say, "Okay." It doesn't seem okay, but he lets the subject drop. "So, what are you and Edgar doing tonight?"

I ignore his stupid jab. "We're going to some jazz thing in the park."

"Evan likes jazz?"

"Alice had tickets to this show, but she wasn't feeling up to going, so she gave them to me. And his name is Edward, Emmett. You know his name is Edward. Quit goading me."

My brother laughs, content to know that he's gotten to me. Jerk. "Is this the first time you two are going out together? Like, officially?"

"We were supposed to have dinner over the weekend, but I was getting over my cold. He came and took care of me while I was sick, you know." Can't hurt to throw that out there.

"He did?" Emmett's tone has changed completely.

"Yeah. He brought me soup, and medicine. He cleaned up all the tissues I threw around. You know how disgusting I am when I'm not feeling good." Emmett laughs, because he's seen that mess up close and personal too many times to count. Even _he _doesn't have the stomach to do what Edward did. "He's a nice guy, Em."

Emmett's quiet; the miracle of miracles. I do a little fist pump, because even though it took a while, I've finally bested him. He's so quiet, in fact, that just when I'm about to see if I've dropped his call, he says, "I'm going to see you at Dad's thing, right?"

Now it's my turn to be the quiet one.

"Bell-"

"I'll be there," I say. I never once considered not going, but it's not something I really want to talk about right now.

"Good."

After sitting through a long line of traffic, I'm finally waved into the parking lot. "I should probably go."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later," he says.

"Okay." I go to hang up, when-

"Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you. I hope you have a good time tonight. Give me a call in the morning, okay?"

I smile so wide that my cheeks feel full. "Okay. I love you, too."

Once I'm parked, I jump out of the car, giddy, like I'm about to take a nosedive into a pile of one-hundred-dollar bills. I practically skip to the trunk and pop it open, then pull the overloaded picnic basket out and place it on the ground. The cooler takes more effort—two hands and some deft maneuvering—even though it's not very big.

It _is_ stuffed to capacity though, because I'm hoping that at the end of the night it'll find a new home in the back of another car.

When my nose had healed, and I could finally take a deep breath without my lungs trying to vacate my body, I went back to work. And that first day, as I sat at my desk watching Edward eat his umpteenth PB&J bit by bit, it hit me over the head like a ten-ton jar of Skippy.

His car, the overtime, the moonlighting, not wanting to go out to dinner: all pieces to one of those giant toddler puzzles that I was too distracted to realize I had most of the parts to. It took an elementary school sandwich and the story of years-old heartbreak to get me to finally understand what needed to be sorted out.

The fourteen-year-old Edward trying to hold it together while carrying the world on his shoulders is still alive and struggling. Only now, something much heavier than grocery bags on the handlebars of his bike is weighing him down. Medical school debt? Something else? The possibilities are endless, and until he's ready to let me in and allow me to help carry some of that burden, I'm going to take on whatever part of it I can.

So, if he's living off of crumbs, I'm going to make sure he has a feast. I just have to be careful about how I do it.

I grab the picnic basket in one hand and the cooler handle in the other, and make my way through throngs of people, keeping time with a family of four to make sure that I don't get lost in the shuffle. When the rumble of the pavement stops, and I hit smoother concrete, I see Edward.

Leaning up against a lamp post, looking as nervous as I feel. He's so handsome in his t-shirt and jeans, with his perfect hands shoved into his faded denim pockets. I stop for a second and watch him; the way his neck cranes to look past the crowd, how he doesn't try to hide the fact that he's looking for me. He's not nonchalant about the whole thing like some guys would be; he's anticipating my arrival as much as I am.

My heart starts thumping this loud percussion that moves my feet forward, and I'm so giddy and light. I could float over to him. Fly, even. When he finally spots me, his whole face lights up, and it seems that maybe he feels like he could fly, too.

There are _so _many people around us. Thousands. But the way Edward beams when he looks at me makes me feel like I'm the only one in the entire state. The entire _country_. The only one who matters.

When he sees that my hands are full, his eyes widen, and he rushes toward me to ease my burden. It seems like we're both trying to do that for each other now, only in two very different ways.

"You look pretty," he says, wearing this sly smile. He's so sneaky, because he knows what words like that do to me, what they mean when they come from his mouth. The way they wrap around me and make me feel like I'm warm under the sun, even though daylight is fading.

"Thank you. You look nice, too." My cheeks burn, and I bite back a grin.

"Don't." He reaches over and glides his thumb across my chin, gently freeing my bottom lip from between my teeth. "There," he says quietly. "That's better."

I smile at the ground, because sometimes it's too much when he looks at me like that, all soft green eyes that really _see_ me, everything about me, inside and out. How does he always know exactly how to make me melt?

"Here, let me take this." His fingertips trail down my arm before he gets a grip on the picnic basket, and a thousand pairs of excited wings flutter in my belly. He reaches for the cooler, too, but I stop him.

"I've got it," I say, waving him off as I grip its handle tightly. It's on wheels—not heavy—and I feel like I need to hold onto something to keep my feet on the ground.

"Bella," he laughs, leaning in to take the handle. "Just let me help."

_Oh_, he's _so_ close. He smells like freshly-washed clothes, and warm summer air. I want to bury my face in the crook of his neck, so I can kiss his skin and smell that smell forever.

"Where should we sit?" he asks, once we start walking. Him, lugging a basket and a cooler, and me with two free arms that long to wrap around his shoulders and hold on tight.

"Um..." I want to ask him if we can ditch this concert and this crowd of people, to go somewhere it'll be just the two of us. A place where my hands can slide across his body, and our lips can become better acquainted, out from under the view of prying eyes.

"How 'bout there," he says, pointing to an area where the sea of spread-out blankets is less dense, and begin to dot the grass like colorful square freckles.

I nod, and we walk. We don't say much, but every so often, when I turn my head and my eyes catch his, I wonder if he wants me as badly as I want him. If this is more than just some night with some girl listening to music under the stars. It has to be, right? I don't even know if there's someone else in his life he tells his secrets to, but I want to be the _only _one.

We find a spot away from everyone else, as far from the crowd as we can get. When our blanket is spread out on the ground, and our bodies are spread out on the blanket, I notice for the first time this evening how tired his eyes are; heavy lids over dark circles that manage to dull the usually intense green.

"Are you okay?" I ask, folding my legs beneath me as I situate myself across from him. Our knees are touching, and I can feel how warm he is, even through his jeans.

I can also see a crack begin to form across his carefully-guarded veneer.

It's small, but I see it. It's in the way his eyes narrow, and his lips pucker while he thinks of an answer. I want him to _tell _me something. _Anything_. Whatever it is that will help me understand what I can do to make things better for him. I know I can't push him, but pieces of his past aren't enough anymore. I need to know about his present.

"Yeah," he finally says, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "I'm just tired."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"No." His expression changes into one that I haven't seen in weeks, and he's borderline defensive.

Defeat pulls at my gut, and I busy myself with pouring each of us some wine to try to fight my uneasiness. I don't like the way the air between us has changed, from light and easy, to...this.

"I mean well, Edward." I make an effort not to look at his face as I hand him a half-filled glass of red.

"I know." He's softer now, less frustrated. "I just want to be with _you_ tonight, and forget about everything else."

I need to know all the things he wants to forget, almost as much as I need air. But there he goes again, knowing exactly how to hit me where I'm weak, with his sweet words and soft smiles.

"Okay," I sigh. "Are you hungry?"

"Definitely."

When I flip open the basket, Edward's eyes widen. I have a tendency to outdo myself when I'm cooking for other people anyway, but since I planned on sending most of this home with him tonight, I filled it to the point where I almost couldn't shut the lid.

"Are there more people coming that I don't know about?" he asks, laughing as he peers into the cooler. He pulls out a container of pasta, and digs around some more. After a steady diet of sandwiches and the small coffee he allows himself as a luxury every day, I'm sure this looks like heaven to him, and that makes my heart break a little bit.

"I wasn't sure what you'd like," I lie, carefully gauging his reaction to make sure he's not onto me. He doesn't seem to be, thankfully.

"If you made it, I'll like it." There's no false flattery there at all. I know that I could put a plate full of steamed liver in front of him, and he'd probably swallow every last bit of it. "But we're never going to be able to eat all of this."

I shrug. "Whatever we don't finish, you can take home with you." It's just a few containers of salad, and fruit, and sliced meat and cheese, but I'll feel better if it goes home with him.

"There's more here than I can eat in a week," he says, taking the plate I've just loaded up for him. "Can I put it in my freezer?"

"I don't think it would freeze very well. Besides, it's not really_ that_ much. And if you think this is a lot, you should see what I have left at home." I close the last container I have open, and stick it back on the ice. "Isn't there someone you can share it with?" That's not really the way I'd intended the question to come out, but there it is.

Edward laughs as he snaps a piece of celery in two. "Are you trying to ask me something?" He seems amused, which is good, I guess.

"Well, I..." I want to know who calls you on the phone all the time; who makes you smile that smile that's usually reserved for me. I want to know if it's okay to trust you with my heart, and if you've already given yours to someone else.

"I'd be a real shit if I went out on a date with you while I had a girlfriend sitting at home, wouldn't I?" He shakes his head as he crunches on the celery, but he doesn't look mad at all.

"An utter shit," I laugh. "I didn't think you did, but we hadn't ever talked about it, and I just wanted to make sure."

"I get it," he says. It's nearly dark now, and the way the lights from the faraway stage reflect against his skin make him look so young and handsome. "I think about you a lot, Bella. _Only_ you."

The backs of his fingers skim across my knee, and I shiver. His eyes are gleaming, and I press my hand into the grass to keep me from reaching over and pulling him on top of me.

"Okay." I smile, and I'm glad the sun is shining on some other part of the world right now, because the darkness surrounding us makes this night feel like our own little secret.

"Do _you_ have someone to share this with?" he asks, pressing his lips together while he waits.

I shake my head. "No. Only you."

The way he grins at my answer makes me feel like a teenager again, like he's left a note in my locker or asked me to homecoming. I know this feeling can't last forever, but I'm going to enjoy the hell out of it while I can.

"This coworker thing could wind up being a real mess," he says, bringing me back down to earth.

"It could." My stomach plummets, but this is the reality of our situation. Things _could_ end badly, and it would be foolish not to acknowledge the possibility. I don't want to take anything here lightly. I want to give us the best start that I can, and that includes examining a less-than-desirable outcome. Even though it's an unpleasant thing to talk about, I feel better that it's been on his mind, too.

"I can't say that I don't care, because this is my livelihood. I care a _lot_, but...being around you feels too good to ignore. I don't think I _can_, and I know I don't want to." He swirls what's left of his wine around in the glass, looking at it as if it's some Magic 8 Ball that will give him a clue about the future.

"I don't want to, either."

"I guess we'll have to be careful, and take things slow. Just...see how it goes."

"Okay." After such a business-like talk about our potential relationship, it feels sort of unnatural to kiss him now. Even though that needed to be said, the conversation was a real mood killer. "Did you like dinner?" I ask, trying to move things to a safe, benign place.

"I don't think _like_ is a strong enough word," he says, piling a few spoonfuls of pasta on his plate. "This is delicious, and I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about taking it home with me. I'll take it all, and probably ask for more."

I laugh. "Well, I owe you after what you did for me last week."

"You don't owe me. It was nothing," he says, dismissing that entire night with a shrug of his shoulders. I don't tell him how much that hurts me.

"You only say that because you weren't the one who was sick. To me, it was everything. I'm not used to someone taking care of me."

"I'm happy to do it," he says, an earnest grin tugging at his lips. "And now you're feeding me, so..."

"I'm happy to do it," I say, smiling. "I'll make you whatever you want."

Edward puts his empty plate aside, and rests his elbows on his thighs. "You better be careful saying things like that, because I'm liable to hold you to it."

"I'm hoping you will." It's more than a little presumptuous, but I reach into the picnic basket and grab two peppermints. I toss one to Edward, and put the other in my mouth.

"Mints?" His wide eyes make me think that maybe I _have_ been presumptuous. But then he laughs, and everything is right again. "I like the way you think," he says, holding one hand up in the air. "Toss me a few more."

I do. We rest our mouths while our breath freshens, and for the first time all night, we just sit and enjoy the music.

A few songs later, Edward's ready to get the conversation moving again.

"So...you like cooking?" He crushes the empty peppermint wrappers into a giant wad and throws them onto his plate.

"I do. It relaxes me. Especially when I can release some aggression while I'm kneading dough or tenderizing meat," I say, laughing as I shift my body, and stretch my legs out.

"I think that might be one form of therapy that not too many doctors have caught on to."

"Probably not."

"Did your mom teach you how?"

"She did," I say sadly. The longer she and I go without speaking, the deeper this rift becomes, and every mention of her makes that divide a little wider. Some days I hardly think about it. Others, it's nearly unmanageable, like it is right now. "I mean, I used to help her with dinner and stuff, but most of it I learned when I moved out on my own."

Edward leans forward and puts his hand on top of mine. It's more of a comforting gesture than a romantic one, but it's welcome just the same. "Are you two still not talking?"

I shake my head. "No."

"How long has it been?"

"A while," I sigh. "A month and a half, maybe?" I don't exactly have the date marked on a calendar. "My dad's birthday is next weekend, so I'm gonna go home for that. We're bound to say at least a few words to each other then."

"Is home far from here?"

"It's a really tiny town called Forks, about three or so hours away. My dad's the sheriff there. It's your typical Northwestern Mayberry."

"Sounds quaint," he says. I can't really tell if he's being sarcastic or not.

"You could call it that. It's kind of suffocating for a teenager though; at least, it was for me. Are you from Seattle?"

"Born and raised," he says. He takes a deep breath, and for a second I think he's going to tell me more, but he doesn't. Instead, he turns the tables back on me. "Are you going to try to make up with your mother while you're there?"

"I don't think I'm the one who needs to do the making up." I try not to sound petulant, because I don't want Edward thinking I'm some entitled brat.

"That bad?" His thumb brushes across my skin, and the gentleness of it makes my eyelids heavy.

"It wasn't one thing, it was kind of a long time coming. And then, the last time I went over there she did something that...broke me, you know? Everything just spilled out."

"Ah." He nods, and takes a sip of wine while he continues to watch me.

"Do you get along with your mom?" I can't imagine why he wouldn't, after all they've been through together.

"Yes," he says, after a long silence. "We're close. She's really supportive of me. Almost_ too_ supportive sometimes."

"I didn't know there was such a thing." Even though I hate to admit it, I feel the tiniest twinge of jealousy.

Edward laughs. "It's not necessarily a _bad_ thing, but I could probably tell her I wanted to study, I don't know, underwater basket weaving or something, and she'd stand behind me one-hundred percent." He smiles sadly, looking out at the stage. A new band is up, even though I'm so invested in the conversation that I hardly notice them. "After what happened with my dad, and the way she was sort of absent, I think she just wanted to make sure I had a good life." Then he turns to me and says, "Your mom isn't like that?"

"No," I laugh. "She's your mother's antithesis. I mean, I'm sure she wants me to have a good life, but she's not very supportive."

"Not supportive of your life, your job, or..."

"All of the above?"

"Yeah, that's gotta be tough. What did you fight about, if you don't mind me asking?"

"All of the above." I shrug, trying to let the tension roll off my shoulders.

Edward laughs. "She didn't approve of you taking a new job?"

"No," I sigh. "She thinks I should be actively pursuing the Executive career path, and that I'm wasting my potential by being an admin. She thinks I'm going to be stuck for the rest of my life, and that she needs to save me from myself." I sound bitter, and I'm surprised some of that bitterness hasn't faded in the time I've spent away from her. I wonder if it ever will.

"_Do _you want to be an admin for the rest of your life?"

"No. But I don't want to be doing what she wants me to, either."

"What do you want to be doing?"

I feel like I'm sitting across from a guidance counselor. A gorgeous, green-eyed guidance counselor whose lips I plan on kissing by the end of the night. "I don't know. But I don't think my title or the size of my paycheck determines the worthiness of my job or my life."

"Of course not," he says, shaking his head. "If it did, this country would be in a real hole. No one would want to teach, or deliver mail, or do construction work. But you shouldn't dread going into work every day."

"I don't," I say, smiling.

"That's good." He smiles back, looking so peaceful in the moonlight.

"For now it is," I say, before popping another mint in my mouth. "But I feel like she wants to be right more than she wants me to be happy."

He's quiet, looking down at our hands. Does he want to argue with me, or is he passively agreeing? I don't know, and I'm scared to find out.

"What do you want to be doing?"

"The job I have," he says, like it's the most obvious answer. I wish I had an obvious answer.

"You like being an accountant?"

"Yes," he laughs. "Why else would I do it?"

"I don't know. Sometimes people get forced into things, and end up in places they didn't think they would."

"I know this will probably sound crazy, but...I would've felt like that if I'd continued in med school. I didn't really want to be a doctor. But I like numbers: they either add up or they don't. They're absolutes, with no grey area."

"Grey areas suck," I say, nodding. I have a feeling that Edward's quite familiar with them.

"Sometimes they can come in handy." Edward moves his hand from mine, leaving my skin cool and wanting while he unwraps another peppermint. "So, nearly two months of fighting over a job?" I can tell he's trying not to sound like he thinks I'm ridiculous, but he obviously does.

"No," I say. I swallow hard, because while I knew this subject would come up eventually, I was hoping it wouldn't be tonight. But, I can't expect him to open up to me if I won't open up to him, so I take a deep breath, and get ready to explain. "The last time I went over there was for a dinner to celebrate my brother's engagement. She had invited my ex without telling me, and...it didn't go over so well."

"Oh," he breathes, nodding his head as his eyebrows knit together. He looks at his lap. "She liked him a lot, then."

"It's complicated. My dad is best friends with his dad. Jake and I have known each other since we were kids, and we started dating the summer before college. I think she's had it in her mind for a long time now that we would end up together."

"So, you didn't think that?" His fingers twist together before his hands come to rest on his thigh.

I shrug. "There was a time that I did. But...life happens."

Edward looks more relaxed, but curious. "What do you mean?"

"It was nothing drastic or dramatic; we didn't have some huge fight or anything. We just sort of lost track of each other, I guess. One day we were visiting his father, and Jake's friend came over with a couple of motorbikes strapped to the bed of his truck. Jake's a mechanic, and he'd always gone on and on about how dangerous they were. I thought he was just going to repair them, or maybe fix 'em up for some extra cash. Turns out he bought them without even telling me," I say, clenching my fists. Over a year later, and that _still_ pisses me off.

"You were mad," Edward says, leaning toward me, resting on his elbows again. "Understandably."

"Yeah, but...it wasn't _just _that. I was confused, because doing that was so _unlike_ him. And that's just one example of a few big things among a bunch of little ones. He started listening to different music, hanging out with this new group of people, and wearing different clothes." I reach into the cooler and pull out a bottle of water, unscrew the cap, and take a sip. I offer one to Edward too, and he takes it. "It's all these trivial little things: clothes, music, friends. They amount to nothing, but they're everything, you know? One day I'm in love with him, and then I look over, and I don't even recognize him. It was just...too far gone at that point."

Edward's quiet as he twists and turns the water bottle in his hands, and I have the sneaking suspicion that I may have already fucked this up.

"You think I'm a horrible person, don't you?" It comes out in a rush, because if he's going to say yes, I'd rather him do it quickly.

"No," he says, smiling. "I know how you feel, actually."

"You do?" My voice sounds panicked, and that's probably because I _am_ panicked. I'm scared to death of the words that are going to come out of his mouth.

"Yeah." He brings the bottle of water up to his mouth, and it takes him an eternity to swallow. "I had a girlfriend in med school. Kate. We were engaged."

Engaged. _Engaged_. As in he gave her a ring and planned to marry her _engaged_. Wow. It was years ago, before I even knew him, but I feel like I was punched in the gut. A completely ridiculous reaction, but.._.wow_. Engaged.

"Engaged?" There. I said it out loud. "To Kate." Even though I only know her monosyllabic name, and the fact that Edward once put a diamond on her left ring finger, I'm imagining what she looks like. Probably tall, with blonde hair and big boobs. Probably laughs like a bell and has a great sense of humor. Probably the life of the party. Probably _not_ afraid of Abraham Lincoln.

_Definitely_ not here with him now, like I am. That makes me feel better. A little.

"Our parents were friends, too," he says, pressing the plastic bottle cap into the blanket. "Not close or anything, more like acquaintances in that WASP-y 'see you at the beach house next summer' kind of way." The left side of Edward's mouth pulls up into this sad half-smile. "It was one of those things that I did during that time I was on auto-pilot that, I just...I really wish I could undo."

He seems embarrassed, and won't look me in the eye. "Then why'd you do it?"

"I was lonely. She reminded me of time that I'd lost, back when we'd play beach volleyball, and my dad would man the grill during cookouts. Her laugh was familiar, and her face was familiar. And when I was with her, everything felt _familiar_, not empty."

I can't blame him for any of that. "I think that's understandable, Edward."

"Yeah." He nods absently. "Familiarity doesn't get you through years of ups and downs, and because someone makes you feel a little less empty isn't a reason to marry them. I loved her, it just wasn't..."

"Enough," I breathe. "It just wasn't enough."

When Edward looks at me, his eyes are no longer sad or embarrassed, because he's not looking at someone who's judging him. He's looking at someone who's been in his shoes, who's gone down the very same path.

"Yeah," he says with a soft smile. "That's exactly it. It's been a while, and we've worked things out. We still talk occasionally, but not very often. How about you?"

"You mean, do I still talk to Jake?"

"Yeah."

"No, not really. I think we'll probably need some more time before that's a good idea."

"How long has it been?" The tone of his voice and the way his eyebrows scrunch together make me feel like the number I'm about to give him is going to be much too small.

"A few months."

"Oh," he says quietly. He's all tensed up now, and I can tell he thinks he's just a placeholder, a soft place to land until I get myself together and find the next man I'll fall in love with.

He thinks he's the rebound guy.

"Edward," I say, taking his hand in mine. "Jake was my best friend for _years _before I ever fell in love with him, and _that's_ what took me so long to let go of. I'm not here because I'm missing something in my life, or because I can't be alone. I was alone long before Jake stopped splitting the rent and utilities."

Edward moves forward, and covers my hand with his, but he isn't looking at me.

"There are so many places I could be right now." I smile as I run the tip of my finger across his jaw line. "But I'm here because I want to be with you, nowhere else."

He grins, and seems more than a little relieved. I know _I_ am.

"You want me?"

There he goes again, taking advantage of me with that look: the pink, upturned lips, and the green eyes behind those long lashes. So beautiful, and so _unfair_.

He's twisting my words, but I'm not about to argue semantics. So, I swallow and decide to make myself vulnerable. "More than anything."

And there's the dimple I'm so fond of, dotting the corner of his enormous smile like a cute little exclamation point. Tonight, because everything's changing, I reach out and cup Edward's cheek, letting the pad of my thumb smooth over that dimple. And when Edward closes his eyes, and turns his head to kiss the palm of my hand, he makes himself vulnerable, too.

"Dance with me."

"What?" I say, laughing. "You're crazy."

"_Dance_ with me." He laces his fingers through mine and pulls me up. "Please?"

His hand is on my back, and he's so alive. How can I possibly say no?

"I'm not very good-"

"_Bella_," he says, a little exasperated. "It's not a contest. I just wanna hold you."

And I'm done. Finished.

We step off of the blanket, and I stretch up to wrap my arms around his neck. He's _so_ tall, and much too far away. Edward feels it too, because he lets go of me just long enough to pull that tiny cooler over a few feet, then grips my waist and lifts me up on top of it. We're eye-level now, and Edward looks awfully proud of himself for coming up with this solution.

He gently brings my left hand to rest on his chest, and I wrap the other around his shoulders.

"Is this okay?" he asks, as we begin to sway.

"Yes." It's more than _okay_. "You'll be glad you've eliminated the possibility of me stepping on your feet."

"I wouldn't mind if you did," he says, reaching up to brush my hair away from my face.

Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky.

His breath mixes with mine somewhere in the few inches between us, and there's something so sweet about being close enough to finally taste him, and _not_ doing it. It's like sitting under the tree on Christmas morning and seeing all of the presents with your name on them, just begging to be opened, but knowing you have to wait until your parents wake up to rip into the paper.

The _almost_ is euphoric; like my body is counting down the seconds 'til impact, and savoring every last one of them. The lucky skin that feels his touch sings, and the small distance between him and me makes my heart beat faster, makes every rush of blood that pumps through my veins push me closer to him.

Edward's hand presses into the small of my back; a small reminder that he's here, as if I could ever forget.

My hand glides over his shoulder and through his hair, which is silk between my fingers. I gently twist it, and a soft '_Bella' _escapes from Edward's lips, slipping over my shoulder and into the night air. I rest my cheek against his neck, near that spot that taunted me earlier. It smells just as good now as it did then, and I breathe deep.

Edward's fingers slowly slide up and down my arm, to no particular rhythm, as a soft melody floats around us. I didn't know such a gentle touch could make me _feel _so much. I sigh against his skin, and feel him smile.

When his fingertip gently drags around the curve of my elbow, I shiver.

"Are you cold?" he whispers. His palm smoothes over the goose bumps that have spread across my arm.

"No." As if I could be, with his breath on my ear, and his warm body so close to mine that I can feel his breathing.

"Then what's this for?"

"I think it's you, because of the way you're touching me." The words are soft and calm, almost like a dream. It's dangerous, him being this close, because I let my guard down and say things no one else could ever make me admit to.

It's scary, and wonderful.

Edward smiles as his fingertips slide across my energized skin, and a whole new wave of goose bumps emerge. "Wow," he breathes.

"Don't be smug," I reply, watching as his hand moves up and down my arm, feather light. I close my eyes and tilt my head back just a little, because I never want him to stop. He has every reason to be smug, really.

He clasps my wrist and brings my hand to rest in the center of his chest, where his heart thrums wildly beneath my fingers. I look at him, eyes wide, because I can't believe all that frenzy is for me.

"I'm not smug," he says. No, he's not smug at all. These feelings are as new to him as they are to me, and we're in this thing together.

His fingertips drift along the neckline of my shirt, pulling it just far enough to expose some of my shoulder. He draws soft circles on my skin, making it want him just as badly as the rest of me does. When I think I won't be able to take any more, he presses his lips to that spot, where all of my blood flows to greet him.

He moves a few inches to the left, and his lips leave a cool trail in their wake. He stakes his claim to the side of my neck; rough stubble grazing tender skin that's buzzing for his touch. After his mouth brushes across the sensitive hollow behind my ear, I gently push him away, breathless.

We're not just crossing a line tonight. We're dancing around it, letting the tips of our toes drag along the edge of it, and he's not going to have all the fun.

Edward's eyes are heavy, but they're not tired like they were before. No, they're summer green and full of longing, and I need to make him feel what I just felt.

My fingers knit through his wild, soft hair, something I've been dreaming of doing for weeks now. When I see the scar I first noticed the day he nearly ruined his shirt with exploding toner, I press my lips against it. Because it's part of him, and even though I don't know the story behind it, I accept every one of his scars, no matter how old, or how deep they are. I want to soothe them. With a kiss, or comforting words, or silence, if that's what he needs to ease his troubled mind.

When the backs of my fingers slide down the side of his face, and his eyelids flutter closed, my lips brush across each one. Because he's _so_ tired, and the exhaustion drains the life out of him. I've seen how bright and vibrant these eyes can be, and I want them to see _everything_—the whole world—not just the inside of an office.

"I think you're wonderful," I whisper. Because he is, and someone needs to remind him of it more often.

When he hears my words, and that dimple comes out, I give it a tender kiss, too. Because he looks like himself when he's like this, and I don't think he's smiled enough in his life. Maybe that's because he hasn't had enough to smile about. All I want to do is make him smile.

Just like he is right now.

He licks his lips, and the tips of his fingers brush across my lips: first the top, and then the bottom. His hand weaves through my hair to cradle the back of my neck, then he rests his forehead against mine, and the clock is winding down.

I'm going to let him kiss me a frillion times, but there will never be another one like this. So, I don't rush him. He takes his time, and I let myself forget that there's a whole world out there that exists outside the two of us. Because right now, all that matters is him and me, and these precious last seconds where we're _something_, before we become something _more_. I savor the moment, like the first lick of an ice cream cone on a hot summer day, even though a whole carton is waiting in the freezer.

And this is just as sweet.

Even sweeter is when he takes my bottom lip between his, all soft and sure. He sucks on it just a little, and that fleeting feeling of his warm, _warm_ mouth just isn't enough. My hands move up and down his sides, where his muscles tense beneath my fingers, and I press myself into him, wanting to leave some kind of mark, some tangible thing so he never forgets this moment, and everything that led up to it.

His fingers slide down the column of my neck and across my back, because he needs me closer, too. And, _oh_ his mouth. It was made to kiss me, with its minty breath and soft, velvet tongue that slowly glides against mine, wet and warm and so _good_. _So_ good.

Have I been kissed before? Not like this. _Never_ like this, and everything before is a dull grey compared to all this color. How could I have settled when _this_ exists in the world? He tastes perfect, and he feels perfect, and this is all so _perfect_. _So_ perfect.

This need that I never thought I'd feel again, a rush that makes every inch of me come alive, that has never, _ever_ been this strong before, pulses through my nerves. It wraps a frantic bubble around slow, tender kisses, and I feel like I'll never be able to take my hands off of him. He's so sturdy beneath my touch, strong, and the soft noises he makes vibrate across my skin, letting me know that I'm doing everything right.

This man is right, and this moment is right, and what we're doing is so _right_. _So _right.

We're lost in a maze of breathy words and laughs, soft touches, and slow, mind-bending kisses. I don't know how long it takes for us to find our way back, but it doesn't matter, because it's not long enough. We end where we began, with Edward's lips on my shoulder, my neck, and my mouth, only now my skin is raw from his stubble, and my lips are swollen from his kiss.

I've endured worse things in my life.

"Remind me to add this to your list of talents," Edward says, his lips brushing across my ear. It's amazing what his breath does to me; how this intangible thing that his body doesn't need anymore can make mine tremble.

"You've made a list of my talents?" I kiss his neck like I've been wanting to all night, and he makes this satisfied little groan, so I do it again.

"Mmm-hmm," he hums. "Your wit." _A kiss_. "Your camping skills." _Another. _"Excel formulas." _His hands_.

"I told you I cheat on those."

"Shhh. I'm listing," he says. _That breath_. "You make me forget my own name."

"_Oh_." _His perfect hands. _

He means well, the way he skims his chin across my skin on his way back to my lips. But we got a little carried away earlier, and I can't hide the tiny hiss that pushes through my teeth.

"Are you okay?" Edward asks, pulling away from me. His eyes are kind of heavy, and he looks a little drunk. Combined with the goofy lopsided grin he can't seem to shake, he's pretty cute, actually.

"Just a little beard burn," I laugh.

He presses his palm against my face, and he sobers up when he feels how heated I am, even though it's not entirely his fault. "Jesus, Bella. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I say, leaning foward to kiss him. It's quick, nothing at all like the first one, but it feels so good just to be able to do it. "Occupational hazard."

"I think maybe you need some medical attention."

"I think you're right," I say, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

"Lucky for you, I'm trained." He laughs, because he sounds so ridiculous. _We're_ ridiculous, and it's the best.

"Yep. Lucky, _lucky_ me."

He puts his hand beneath my chin, and tilts my head to the side.

"This looks bad," he says, pressing a gentle kiss on my jaw.

"Yeah."

"And there's a spot here."

_Warm lips. _

"I think this area needs some attention."

_Such soft, warm lips. _

"This side's kind of bad, too," I say, turning my head.

"Oh, definitely."

Maybe he loses his balance and moves too far forward, or maybe I lose mine and lean too far back. But when the cooler wobbles, I grab Edward's arms to steady myself, and the next thing I know, we're tangled up on the ground, laughing.

As I pull blades of grass out of his hair, and he peels a paper plate off of the back of my shirt, I can't help but think that he probably could've held me up.

But sometimes, it's just so easy to fall.


	11. Parallax

**Chapter Eleven**

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_**Parallax: **__The apparent change in position of two objects viewed from different locations._

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For the week that follows our first kiss, Edward and I discover what it's like to be Mike and Jessica. We orbit each other, rarely crossing paths as we steal short glances, and share few words between nine and five.

While we keep ourselves busy not standing too close, or looking too often, or talking too much, we wait. We wait for those few seconds in the privacy of the elevator that takes us to get our morning coffee, where I pull on his tie, and he locks me between his body and the wall. Where his lips and hands make me feel like gravity is just some myth made up by lonely people who have never felt anything like _this_ before.

We wait for the fifteen minutes it takes for us to make our way to the cafe and back, during which Edward tells me how pretty I am and that he can't wait to kiss me again, and how I smell so, _so_ good. We talk about little things and bigger things, but always avoid the biggest. Sometimes doubt starts to creep into my mind—when he leaves early, or cradles his phone to his ear as he speaks soft words with a gentle grin—but I chase it away by thinking of how peaceful I feel when he's holding me. Only then does that doubt settle down deep, buried beneath layers of hope. How can it not, when he smiles the way he smiles and makes me feel like I'm floating?

He smiles, I float, and we wait. We spend so much time waiting, that when the waiting stops, we cling to that time like it's weighting us down to the earth. That time that stops and speeds up all at once when we're together like this, just walking side by side, holding coffee cups that warm our hands, and speaking flirty words that warm our bodies.

"I like your dress," Edward says, brushing the back of his finger across the fabric that covers my thigh before he remembers that we're in a hallway full of people. He gives me this look; fierce green eyes with a fervent smile that let me know he's thinking about what's under this clothing he likes so much.

"It's a skirt," I say, smiling. It doesn't really matter what it is, because I'll let him take it off of me if he wants to. I think about that often.

"It's short," he replies, tilting his head back a little, just enough to make it obvious that he's checking me out.

"It is not." I smooth my free hand down the side of my leg to make sure I'm not walking around looking like a hooker.

"That color looks nice on you."

"It's just blue," I say, looking down at my old sweater. It's nothing special, and I'm pretty sure I've had it for years.

"It makes your skin look like it tastes good."

This is my favorite sweater.

"You can't say things like that," I tell him, and my whole body is buzzing. I'm a liar though, because those words could be on a continual loop falling from his lips, and I'd listen to them for hours.

"I'm pretty sure I can," he mutters, raising an eyebrow. He's so cocky, but it doesn't matter, because he's right, and _there's_ my dimple. I wish all these people would go away so I could just kiss him and touch him for a minute, even though that wouldn't be nearly enough. "I think you like it."

I look at the floor for a few steps before my eyes meet his again, and I let my grin answer for me.

He smiles.

I float.

On the elevator back up to the tenth floor, we're not alone. The small room that we occasionally get lucky enough to have to ourselves is packed with men in suits and ties, cluttering the space with their rolling briefcases and BlackBerries. Edward's cramped in the back corner, and I'm standing in front of him, my left side smooshed against the wall. It's too hard to be this close to him and not turn around, not put my hand somewhere on him to make him mine.

He must be thinking the same thing, because his fingertips slide down the back of my hand until they're loosely twined with mine. Here, between our bodies and the gold rail that lines the perimeter, is our secret. I casually look right to see if anyone around us notices, but they don't. They're too busy talking, and typing, and looking at the rising number by the door to pay the two of us any attention.

Edward squeezes my fingers, and it makes my heart trip and slam into my rib cage. I tilt my head down and waste a perfectly good smile on my coffee cup.

For a change of pace, I'm the one who's leaving early this afternoon, so I can get on the road and be in Forks in time for Dad's birthday dinner tonight. I can feel Edward watching me as I pack up to leave, and I debate whether it would be a good idea for me to chance walking over there to talk to him before I go. I feel like we're too obvious, like people can just see everything we do when they're not around. Even when I'm not looking at him, there's this energy crackling in the air that makes my whole body want to move toward him. Before, our polar sides repelled each other, but over the past couple of months we've flipped, and now it's nearly impossible to stay away.

But we have to.

It's not a good idea for me to push things too far this soon, because the urge to reach out for him when we're so close together is too strong. I'll just get up and leave, and smile at him as I go. That'll have to be good enough for the next couple of days.

With my bag in my hand on my way out the door, I wave, and he winks. I stop, I can't help it. Maybe I'm hoping that everyone will disappear, or that the two of us will magically slip away into some private place. Edward fidgets restlessly in his seat, and I know he wants to come to me, too.

"Bye," I say quietly, then he does the same. This heavy disappointment settles across my shoulders as I walk away, because it feels like too little to have to last us for so long. I know I'm being ridiculous. It's only two days—it's not like I'll never see him again—but now the time I spend with him seems too short, and the time apart ticks away like an eternity.

"Have a good weekend, Bella," Jessica says in her sing-song voice, with a cheery grin that I don't buy for a second. Maybe she's onto me. I might as well have a neon sign over my head that reads, 'I lust after Edward Cullen.'

"You, too," I reply quickly, before the door shuts behind me.

I make my way through the parking garage with heavy steps, where the damp air that's blowing a swirling mist outside seeps through the cement and brushes my skirt against my legs. It reminds me of the way Edward touched me earlier, and I shiver.

I open the trunk and exchange my heels for more comfortable slip-ons. It's when I go to open my door that I notice a small piece of paper tucked in between the windshield and the wiper. I'm grinning before I reach over to get it, because I already know it's from him.

_Have fun in Mayberry. Call me when you get home. Or if you get bored. Or if you need some biographical information on Abraham Lincoln, and you don't have access to Google. Or if you want me to make you smile._

_Just call me._

_Be safe._

_-E_

One folded-up piece of paper, and Edward's so-neat-it-should-be-a-font handwriting are all it takes to feel bright again, and I slip the note into the side pocket of my purse and toss it onto the passenger seat.

Then, I hear footsteps. Running, pounding footsteps.

"Bella, wait!" It's one of those whisper-yells, the one people use when they're trying to be discreet and failing miserably.

I know the voice, just like I knew the note, and when I turn toward him, Edward's in front of me. Breathless, smiling.

"I thought you might be gone by now," he huffs. "I'm glad you're not."

I'm glad as well, but I'm too dumbfounded to say anything, so I slowly shake my head.

"I just wanted to say goodbye." He steps forward, I step back, and my door closes with one small click that feels like it echoes through the garage.

"Okay."

It happens quickly; the way warm, unyielding _Edward _presses me against unforgiving glass and steel. There's a dangerous look in his eyes as he wraps one arm around my waist, and plants his free hand somewhere on my car, holding himself up above me. He bites his bottom lip between his perfect teeth as he grins, because he gets a thrill out of thrilling me, and he's becoming an expert at it.

He's kissed me a hundred times by now, probably more, and each one makes me want another, and every another makes me want ten more. This one is no different. It's soft, and slow, with my hands in his hair, and him holding onto me for dear life. It's his nose pressed against my cheek, and those quiet noises he makes when he's happy, and just enough to make sure we won't forget what our lips and tongues feel like when they come together like this.

It's _just_ enough, but it's really not enough at all.

"I'm gonna miss you," he says, grinning.

"I'm gonna miss you, too." I grin back, how can I not? "Are there cameras in here?"

He laughs. "No."

His fingertip glides along the collar of my sweater—I've noticed this is something he likes to do. It's a promising little tickle that makes my eyelids grow heavy, and he goes so slow, almost as if he's testing his will, to see if he can resist pulling a little to see what's underneath.

When he tilts his head and his lips brush the side of my neck, I'm reminded of what he said about my skin earlier. He kisses my collarbone, and I feel his tongue. It's just for a second, so quick, really, but this high-pitched noise finds its way out of the back of my throat. Embarrassing.

Edward steps back, with his bright smile, and dimple, and perfect teeth. "I was right," he says, licking his lips a little, and sounding out of breath.

The cement below me feels like it's melting, and I sink. I sink, sink, sink. Or maybe my knees are giving out, I don't know. I don't particularly care.

"I should probably go," I murmur, voice ragged. Oh, look. I'm forming coherent words. If I don't drive out of this garage now, I'm going to grab his tie and pull him on top of me into the back seat. Not that I think he'd mind, based on the way he's looking at me now.

"Yeah." His hand slides across the small of my back until it reaches the door handle.

Once I'm buckled up and the car is running, I roll down the window, and Edward leans in to kiss me one last time.

"Have fun with your friend," I say. He told me he was just going to be hanging out with someone he knew in high school this weekend.

"I will. Send me a text or something to let me know you got there okay, all right? And if it gets to be too much, call." He brushes my cheek with the backs of his fingers, and I close my eyes.

"All right, I will."

"Bye," he says, stepping back as I roll up the window.

I wave as I pull out, and watch him in my rear-view mirror. As I turn onto the main road and merge into the flow of traffic, I can't get rid of the smile on my face. It's a huge pain in the ass, but there really is something to be said for sneaking around.

I don't know if it's because Edward left my brain all mushy, or if time and space have just made things feel different this go round, but my drive out to Forks isn't really filled with dread or loathing, and I'm not nervous or scared. My hands are steady on the wheel, and I listen to music and sing along as the evergreens disappear into a blur as I pass, and the sporadic drops of rain stop altogether.

Emmett's not waiting at the end of the street to greet me like he was last time I was here, and even though I hadn't really expected him to be, the fact that he's not puts me at ease. When I talked to him yesterday, he told me that Rose was visiting her family in New York, so she won't be here to get all caught up in our messes. It's just the Swan family, left to our own devices. I know from experience that's rarely a good thing.

I pull up behind Emmett's gargantuan SUV, shoot a quick text to Edward, grab my bag from the trunk, and head toward the porch. There's no hesitation, no butterflies in my stomach, and no urge to run the other way. This Bella is a far cry from the one who last stepped foot inside this house a couple of months ago, and I never knew such a short time could make such a big difference.

It seems like life is trying to tell me that a lot these days.

The smell wafting through the screen door makes my mouth water as I purposely step on the creaky floorboard and let myself in. I drop my bag at the foot of the stairs, and turn toward the kitchen. As usual, Dad and Emmett are sitting at the table, and Mom has her back to the door. She's got cool indifference down pat, because even though we have no air conditioning, the atmosphere is ice cold.

"Hey, kiddo," Dad says, as he stands up from his chair. His eyes are all soft and welcoming. They crinkle at the edges when he's happy like this, and his hug is the easiest thing in the world. It's warm and enveloping, his flannel shirt soft against my skin. It's everything my mom's hugs never are. At least, they haven't been for a long, long time.

"Happy birthday." I stretch up on my toes to kiss his stubbly cheek.

"Hey, Em," I say, wrapping my arms around his neck as I rest my chin on his shoulder to see what he's looking at. He hasn't even turned around, because he's all engrossed in a Sudoku. Once he gets his mind wrapped up in one of those things, he's all but gone. "I said hi." My voice is loud in his ear as I pinch him, and he grabs my upper arms and bends forward, lifting me off of the ground before he stands and starts spinning me around. When I squeal, pots rattle against the stove top.

I come down to earth in more ways than one.

"Hi, Mom." I try hard to sound friendly. I succeed a little.

She turns to look at me, but I only see her profile. Her eyes narrow and her mouth is in a thin line. She doesn't say anything.

"Jesus, Renee," Dad says, shaking his head. "Stop with the bullshit." I have to admit, it feels good to have him on my side.

My hand trails across Dad's shoulder as I scoot around him to grab a chair, and when I sit, he looks at me with understanding.

'_It's okay_,' I mouth. I don't want the two of them fighting on his birthday.

He sighs, and shakes his head, but his smile warms me up.

"Whatcha been up to?" he asks, before taking a sip of his beer.

"Not much," I say, shrugging. "Just work and stuff."

"Stuff," Emmett says under his breath, with kind of a snort. I kick him under the table, and when he looks up at me, I glare.

It's not a subtle gesture, and Dad sees it.

"Stuff," Dad says, twisting his fingers around the neck of his bottle.

"Yeah. Hanging out with friends, you know."

This time Emmett has the good sense to keep his huge pie hole shut, but he tears himself away from his puzzle for long enough to let me know that he sees through me. He knows as well as I do that bringing Edward up now is just...a really, _really_ bad idea.

The three of us chitchat about mundane things. Uncontroversial, trivial things. Sudokus, the weather, the tree that fell across Main Street last week and held up traffic for two hours. Mom's contribution to the conversation is the banging of cookware, and plates crashing together as she pulls them down for me and Emmett to set the table.

When the roast comes out of the oven, the conversation stops. Mom busies herself with putting food on our plates, and making sure all the condiments are out. And avoiding my eyes. She's great at that, a real pro.

Dinner passes uneventfully. It's full of '_this is really good_'s and '_can I have some more_'s, and '_please pass the butter_'s. It's forks scraping against plates, spoons stirring, sips of water, and beer bottles coming down against the table. It's a well-orchestrated symphony of passive-aggressiveness, with my mother as the seasoned conductor.

When the last bit of gravy's been sopped up by crusty bread, and the leftovers are wrapped up in the refrigerator, Mom lights the candles on Dad's favorite cake. We sing him _Happy Birthday_, and those few lines of melody bring out the most life I've seen in my mother all day.

"This is really great," Dad says once his plate is clean, then he scrunches up his napkin and throws it on top of the table. "It's exactly what I wanted."

"Speaking of what you wanted, hold on a sec," Emmett says. He goes out into the hallway and comes back in with a huge box that was obviously wrapped by Rosalie.

Dad's face lights up when he sees it, and just when he rips into the paper, Emmett says, "Bell and I got you a new rod and a tackle box."

I groan, and reach over to smack the back of his head.

"Ouch," he says, rubbing the spot. "What was that for?"

I roll my eyes. "The whole point of wrapping something up is so that the person who gets it is surprised. You kind of ruin it when you tell them what's in the box, you moron."

"There's a rod in here?" Dad asks, pulling at a cardboard flap.

"We took a picture of it and put it in the tackle box. It was hard to wrap, not that it matters with Fort Knox over here," I say, pointing at my brother.

Dad laughs, and Emmett promises to take him out on the lake first thing in the morning. Maybe I'm imagining it because I'm a little desperate for _something_, but I swear I see Mom smile.

Once I've cleared the table, and the dishwasher is running, Dad takes Emmett out to the shed to show him the new lawnmower he bought. Not wanting to feel the pressure of making conversation with my mother, I head into the living room.

My eyes are drawn to a new photo there, one that anchors the left side of the mantle above the fireplace. The frame is made of rich wood, in a simple, classic design that I know Rosalie picked out. It holds a photo of her and Emmett, sitting under a tree that I recognize from Olympic National Park. Mom, Dad, Em and I used to have picnics there when I was little.

That place always felt so magical, the way the woods made everything quieter, and the branches of ancient trees stretched so high in the sky, like they were made to make the world feel like a more peaceful place. Mom would make us sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and when Dad and Emmett stalked off across fallen leaves and tree roots, she'd read to me. I'd sit on her lap with the back of my head resting against her chest, and I'd close my eyes while she ran her fingers through my hair.

Those were the best days. All that good between us is gone now.

I slide my fingers along the edge of the frame, smiling at how _alive _Rose and Em are. They're not even looking at the camera—Emmett's looking at Rose, while Rose looks at their hands—and both of them practically jump off of the paper. It's the way they make each other smile, and how I can hardly tell whose fingers are whose. I can practically feel what they're feeling. I can _see_ it.

"That's a beautiful picture, isn't it," Mom says. Those are the words that actually come out of her mouth, but the woman can say so much without ever having to actually _say_ it.

I turn my head and see her leaning against the doorway before I look back at the frame. "It is. I've always thought that spot was pretty."

"When you were younger, you wanted to get married there, remember?" With anyone else, it's just a fond memory, a path into a pleasant conversation. With my mother, it's an arrow poised and ready to strike. What she doesn't realize is that I have armor now. She can't hurt me.

There are a lot of things I wanted when I was younger that aren't turning out the way I planned. I used to think it was a curse, a bad thing. Now I'm beginning to realize that not following a plan can lead you to some great and unexpected places. Not all of them are great, of course, but enough of them are to make it worth the risk. I think life's trying to teach me that, too.

"Mom, don't," I say. There's no attitude or annoyance there. Just firm, well-rounded words that are rooted in some newfound confidence inside of me. I can't see it, but I know it's there. I think that sometimes those are the strongest things, the ones that are invisible to human eyes.

"You could've had that, just like Em and Rose." She's not angry anymore, I can tell. She's just giving me her version of the truth, with a little sadness mixed in. The melancholy tone of her voice makes me look over at her. For the first time in years, I see concern there, not judgment or anger. Just concern, and it moves me. "You and Jake were _good _together."

I set the picture down on the mantle, and walk over to the couch.

"Come here."

She looks skeptical, and completely unwilling, like her shoulder is glued to the doorway. She comes, though. She walks slowly, but she comes.

When she's finally in front of me, I reach out to hug her; I wrap my arms around her, and hold her tight. Because I miss it, because I love her...because I want her to know that I'm not trying to start a fight. Because I want to make things better. Because I want to be the bigger person.

My hands slide down her arms, and we sit. I hold her hands in mine and rest them on my lap, looking at them while I figure out what I'm going to say. She's impatient, and I can tell she's dying to say something, but for once she stays quiet. _She_ listens.

"If you want me to be a part of your life, you have got to stop this," I say, looking at the diamond on her wedding ring.

She sighs, and starts to argue with me, but I cut her off before she has the chance.

"You're happy with Dad for the most part, aren't you?"

She looks at me like I have two heads, probably because she doesn't understand what I'm getting at.

"Do you know what it's like to love someone for years, to give him your_ whole_ life, and realize one day that you don't even know who he is anymore?"

Her eyes are steady as they look into mine, blue as the sapphire ring she gave me for my sixteenth birthday.

"I loved Jake, Mom. Our breakup is not a referendum on the kind of people we are. He's a good man, but we are not good together. We _were_, but we hadn't been for a very long time. We were _so_ unhappy. We hid it from you, from Dad, from the Blacks. We hid it from ourselves, until there was no way to hide it anymore."

"It's not always easy, Bella-"

"Just..." I hold my hand up to stop her from talking, then I take a deep breath and continue. "Do you know that I used to dread going home every day? Sometimes I'd drive around the city until it was dark, so that I'd make it home after the Mariners game was on." Tears fall down my cheeks, because I've never told anyone this, and the very last person I ever thought I'd admit it to is my mother. "That way, when I walked in while he was busy watching, it was easier to accept the fact that he ignored me.

"I'd go into the bathroom every night and I'd cry in the shower. And I stayed because he was the first man I ever loved, and I was scared that if I walked away, I'd never find that again."

Mom's eyes are glassy, and I feel like maybe I'm finally getting through to her. I _hope_ I am.

"I sat on the edge of the tub, and I convinced myself to stay. I thought, tomorrow will be the day he'll kiss me like he used to. Tomorrow he'll ask me how I am. Tomorrow he'll look at me and really _see_ me. Wonder about me. Want to know about_ me_.

"And you know what, Mom? All of those tomorrows turned into a week. And then a month. And then the next thing I knew, a whole year had passed. A whole year of waiting for tomorrows that_ never _came.

"I see Rose and Emmett, and how they make each other smile, even after all this time. How good they are for each other." I pause, and take a deep breath. "Do you remember when he broke up with Angela?"

She nods, sniffling.

"After seeing that picture of Em and Rose, could you have looked him in the eye and said, 'Stick it out, Son, don't be a quitter. You and Angela are _good _together. You just wait around for things to get great, okay? Don't you dare try to find the person who makes you smile so wide you can make a piece of paper come to life.' Could you have let him settle for anything less than _that_?" I say, pointing at the mantle.

"No," Mom replies. She's full-on crying now; red cheeks, a runny nose, and ragged breaths.

"Then why are you always asking _me_ to?"

"Bella, I don't want you to settle." She _does_ sound angry now.

"Yes you do, Mom. You do. You wanted me to settle with Jake, my job, my clothes, even my _hair_. I'm never good enough for you-"

"You are, Bella," she says, squeezing my hands. "All I want is for you to be happy, to see all sides of a problem before you decide how to solve it. I don't want you to make my mistakes."

"You say that all the time, but do you even know what it means?" My voice is so shaky that it's hard for me to control. "It's like you're telling me to be happy splashing in puddles, when there are _oceans_ in the world. And I should just accept the limitation, because you tried swimming once, and got pulled under by a wave."

Mom shakes her head as she pulls a Kleenex from the box on the coffee table, and sniffles before she blows her nose.

"Are we _ever _going to understand each other?"

After tonight, I'm not sure the outlook is so good. I shrug, because...I don't know. I really don't know. I can't believe that after all I've laid out tonight, that's the response she has. "Did you even hear anything I just said?"

An exasperated sigh is the only answer she gives me, and we sit in an uncomfortable silence for a long time.

Mom breaks first, and walks into the kitchen, and up the stairs. I know she's going to her room, where she'll sit and cry over her awful daughter. It's her standard routine. Mine is to retreat to the porch swing when things go wrong, so that's exactly what I do.

I sit listening to the creaking chains as I go back and forth, and pick bits of rust off of the links that get stuck beneath my fingernails. Nearly thirty minutes pass before Emmett and Dad come back, and Em sighs as he sits down next to me.

"Aw, hell," he says, tucking me under his arm. "What happened?"

"I just had a talk with Mom," I say, wiping my cheek with the sleeve of the sweatshirt I stole from the coat hanger on my way out the door. I don't know who it belongs to.

"I didn't hear any yelling."

I nudge him with my shoulder. "There wasn't any."

"Then why are you crying?"

"I'm not."

"Bullshit," he says, kissing the top of my head.

"I'm not!" I was, but it doesn't matter anymore.

"Don't want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"All right," he says, brushing my hair off of my shoulder. "So...how's your boy?"

"My _boy_?"

"Yeah, your boyfriend or...whatever."

Is Edward my boyfriend? I guess he is. I _want _him to be. "He's fine. He's visiting with a friend this weekend."

"Bella and Edwin sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g," he sings.

"Every time you call Edward something other than his name, I'm gonna call you Emmay for a week." Ha, I've got him now.

"Ugh, I forgot about that." He's such a liar—he forgot no such thing. "Freaking Mrs. Dratch."

"She sought you were a wee Franch boy when you came to zee middal school. Zay hallo to zee clazz, Emmay. Entroduze yourzelf."

"Shut up," he says, laughing. He tries to pinch my side, but I'm too quick for him. "You know, that really should've clued Mom and Dad in to the inferiority of a Forks education, that my seventh-grade homeroom teacher thought my name was French."

"Maybe you just had what the French call a certain...I don't know what."

"Yeah," he laughs. "Maybe."

We swing for a while, smiling, before Emmett speaks again.

"Has Alice met him?"

"Met who?"

"Edward," he says. When I look over at him, he's grinning.

"Once...sort of." Back when he was still acting like an ass. "She knows about us, but, like, we haven't done anything official yet. You know Alice. As long as I'm not doing drugs or heading an international prostitution ring, she's happy that I'm happy. It doesn't matter to her who's putting the smile on my face."

"I noticed the smile. I mean, not today, but...I can hear it when I talk to you. I like it."

"I like it too."

"So, he's good to you?"

"He is."

"Am I going to get to meet him?"

"You already did," I say, laughing. "Or did you forget that you threatened to send the Forks Police after him?"

"What a threat that was. Dad and the fat deputy who accidentally shot Mrs. Peterson with a tranq dart a few years ago. That's the full force of the law comin' down on ya, right there."

I laugh. "I forgot about that."

"What I meant was that I want to meet him properly."

"Oh, well...I was thinking about inviting him to the wedding..."

Emmett, he can hear the _if _in my voice. The one that goes deeper than just hoping that we stay together that long. The _if_ that I've been drowning out at every turn. _If_ he can afford a tux, _if_ this works out, _if_ he's not hiding something huge from me. If, if, _if._

"If what?" See? He's my brother, he knows me.

"It's nothing," I lie.

"Don't pretend like I didn't just hear what I heard," he sighs.

"What did you hear?" For someone who's usually so oblivious, Emmett sure picks the most inopportune times to start paying attention.

"I just heard a person who's been non-stop happy have a little doubt creep in. What is it? Is he married or something?" He sounds panicked, like he's about to go ballistic if I say yes. We Swans like to jump to conclusions.

"What kind of person do you think I am? No, he's not married," I say, trying to keep my voice down. "I'm not some home-wrecking whore."

"I know," he says quickly, sounding contrite. "I just got worried for a minute."

"You don't have to worry, it's...he's got something going on, and I don't know what it is," I admit.

"What do you mean, he's got something going on?"

"I don't know, he...leaves work early sometimes, and...he seems to have some kind of money trouble." I cringe when the words leave my mouth, because every one of them feels like a betrayal.

"You can't just ask him about it?"

"He opens up to me bit by bit, Em. He's had a rough life, and he doesn't seem to want talk about it very much, so I don't want to push him. He's proud, and he doesn't want to accept help or admit to any kind of a weakness. Even if it's not_ really _a weakness, you know?"

"And you have no idea what it is?"

"No. Maybe he's helping his mother," I say, remembering how Edward told me she shut down after his father died. "Or, maybe he's just having a rough time. The economy is shit, so-"

"You're just gonna sit around and wait for him to tell you?"

"Well, no, but..." I sound so naive.

I know Emmett's thinking the same thing, but luckily he doesn't say it out loud.

"I'm your brother, Bell. I love you, and I'm worried. There are some crazy people in this world, and...I don't know..."

"You watch too many Lifetime movies. Don't worry about me," I say, even though he has me doubting myself a little bit now.

Emmett pulls me close, tucking me against his side. "Remember when we were kids, and you used to make those animated cartoon flip books with Mom's Post-It notes?"

"Yes." I don't even begin to try to figure out where this is going.

"You were drawing one day, and in the middle of the pad, someone had scribbled-"

"Help, I'm stuck in a paper factory," I say, laughing. "And what do you mean, 'someone'? _You_ did that."

"One of my finer moments, I must say. Anyway, that's not the point. By the time Mom found you, you'd already called God knows how many numbers to get to the police so they could send someone in there to save the guy."

"So?"

"What I'm trying to say is that you have a really big heart. If Edward needs help, I don't doubt that you're the best person to help him."

"But..." Emmett can hear my ifs, and I can hear his buts.

"But...sometimes you jump into things feet first, without thinking everything through beforehand."

"I _care_ about him, Em. It's not because I have some Miss Fix-It complex, I..._want_ him. The problems are just an obstacle."

"I know you care, I don't doubt that at all. Just...look out for yourself, okay?"

"He's a good guy." No matter what Edward has going on in his life, I _know_ that. It's an undeniable truth.

"If you trust him, then I do too," he says, patting my leg.

"I do," I reply. What I don't trust is this feeling I have in the pit of my stomach. It's small, but it nags and pulls at me, making me think of things I don't want to think about. Making me feel like maybe, just _maybe_, Emmett might be right.

I stand up and stretch, trying to force it out, but it grips me tightly, and won't let go.

"I think I'm gonna go change," I tell Emmett, then charge up the stairs into my room.

That creeping, uneasy feeling. I can't even outrun it.

I lie on my bed and try to read. Try to rest. Try to sleep.

After midnight, I decide to go to the kitchen for a drink. I open my door, and faint blue light cutting through darkness leads me down the stairs.

When I see Dad sitting on the couch, I smile. So many things have changed over the years, but this is exactly the same. I walk over and sit down next to him, and he doesn't even flinch. It's like he's been expecting me.

"I was hoping you'd come down here," he says, as I snuggle into his side. He kisses my forehead, his mustache scratchy against my skin.

"I wasn't sure if you'd want me."

"I'll always want you." Somehow, I know he's not just talking about having a movie watching partner, and that makes me curl up tighter against him. Dad mutes the TV while_ Lethal Weapon_ goes on a commercial break.

"That's good to know," I say, as he spreads the free half of his blanket across my legs.

"So, you have a new boyfriend, huh?" He just shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth, like the question is absolutely nothing at all. Why can't Mom be this easy?

"How did you know?"

"Father's intuition," he says, with this self-satisfied half-smile.

"Lies."

"I overheard you and your brother on the porch," he laughs. I hope he didn't overhear everything, but I'm too scared to ask.

"Oh. You didn't say anything to Mom, did you?"

Dad looks at me like I'm crazy. "No. I want to meet this kid though. Make sure he's not a punk."

"He's not a kid, and he's not a punk," I say, trying not to sound too exasperated.

"I'll be the judge of that." He takes a sip of his beer. "You and your mom all right?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I want us to be."

"If it's too uncomfortable for you to stay, you can leave tomorrow, baby. It won't hurt my feelings."

It's a tempting offer. "But it's your birthday."

"Yesterday was, and it was great. But me and your brother are gonna be on the lake most of the day, and Sunday you know we're supposed to go to some lunch thing with the Petersons."

"Brunch," I correct him.

"Brunch," he sighs. "I think maybe you two could use a little more space. Baby steps, and all that."

"Okay, I'll go."

"I didn't mean that you had to leave, I just thought you might want to, and I didn't want you to feel obligated," he says, in some kind of a repentant rush. "I _want_ you here, Bells."

"It's okay, Dad. I understand where you're coming from." I kiss his cheek, just so he knows that I mean it. "Maybe it's a good idea."

"I'm gonna be in the city in a couple of weeks for some kind of State-sponsored training thing. I could stop by and visit for a while." He hasn't been to visit me in a long time. A year or more, at least.

"I'd like that."

When the movie comes back on, I close my eyes and rest my head against his chest. I sleep intermittently until he wakes me up at the crack of dawn, so that he can go get ready to go to the lake. I make him and my brother breakfast, and when Mom comes downstairs complaining about the smell—bacon and eggs—I know it's best for me to take my dad up on his offer.

I kiss him and Emmett goodbye on the porch, then watch as they drive away.

Less than an hour later, I leave, too. Mom is holed up in her room, and doesn't say goodbye. I try not to think of her on my way back to Seattle, and I succeed about half of the time. I think about calling Edward, but I don't want to interrupt his day. When I get home, I collapse on my bed, exhausted, and sleep until early afternoon.

I'm a little restless, the way I usually am when I come home from visiting my parents, this post-confrontational buzz rolling across my skin. What makes it worse is that I still can't shake the creeping, uneasy feeling Emmett made sure to plant in my gut yesterday.

It rattles around inside of me, and pushes me out the front door and down the steps, where the sun is bright, and there's a warm breeze blowing. Maybe I can just walk it off. My feet carry me across the sidewalk and two streets over, where I squeeze through some overgrown hedges and into the park.

The same park where Edward and I started becoming more than friends and coworkers, just a few weeks ago. Kids are on our swings now, giggling and yelling as the wind blows their hair across their faces in wild, carefree streaks. I walk around the perimeter of the park, through blocks of shadow and light, until I find an empty bench.

I sit and stretch out, enjoying the open space around me, because all the action is happening elsewhere. One crowd is gathered by the playground, the other on the far side of the park, where chirping whistles and feet thumping against soccer balls announce the game being played. Parents are huddled in small clusters; some hanging back and observing, others yelling their encouragement, all while the sun beats against their backs.

There are all kinds of unfamiliar bodies over there, but there's one, standing on the edge of the crowd, that stands out. He's tall and lean, with sun-streaked bronze hair, wearing low-slung khaki shorts and a faded blue t-shirt; an outfit I know I've seen before.

That's because _he_ is _Edward_.

I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, ignoring the light, nervous feeling that pulsates down to my fingertips. It makes that creeping, uneasy feeling roll through my stomach, where it gets bigger, and gains strength.

"Hey," he says, his voice warm as the sunshine.

"Do you always spend your Saturday afternoons at pee-wee soccer games?" That's not at all the way I'd intended to greet him, but I guess the need to know is stronger than anything else right now.

"What?" He's looking around, confused.

"To your left," I say, as I stand up. When he sees me, he holds the phone away from his ear, his mouth open. Then his eyebrows knit together as he makes his way over, and I recognize those fierce green eyes. So different now than they were when they looked at me yesterday.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, his voice urgent. I can tell he's trying not to be so defensive, but he's failing.

"Shouldn't I be asking you the same thing?" I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "_I_ live down the street." I'm sounding pretty defensive, too.

"Aren't you supposed to be with your parents?"

"I came home early. Aren't you supposed to be with your friend?"

"I..." He slowly looks over at the field, then back at me. "I am."

"What, a six-year-old?"

"No," he says, pointing to some redhead on the edge of the crowd. He might have been standing next to her, I can't remember. She waves and smiles, and I feel like I want to vomit. "The six-year-old's mom. Tanya."

"Oh, Jesus." Panic grips my chest, and I hunch over, unable to breathe.

"It's not what you think," he says, touching my shoulder.

"Well, why don't you tell me what to think." I straighten up, and his arm falls to his side.

"Tanya's husband's a doctor, and she's a nurse. They just moved nearby, and they work crazy hours—I babysit their kids sometimes. We practice kicks in the backyard, and I promised I would come to the game."

"That's it?"

"That's it." He nods, and I believe him.

"Why couldn't you just tell me that?"

He hesitates, kicking a patch of dirt with the tip of his shoe. "Because I didn't want you to know, okay?"

"That you babysit?"

"Yes," he sighs.

I take a few seconds to work through his thought process, and no matter how many times I run this information through my brain, it doesn't make any sense. "Are you just fucking around with me or something?" It nearly kills me to say it, but I have to know.

"What do you mean?" His brow is furrowed, and every curve of his face is set like stone.

"Well, you don't have a problem kissing me, and you have no problem touching me, but you won't even tell me that you babysit? Am I just some kind of distraction for you?"

"No," he says, moving closer. His face is so red. "Why the_ hell_ would you think that?"

"Because you_ hide_, Edward. You tell me I make you forget about everything, and...what is it that you need to forget about? You talk to some mysterious person on the phone every day, and what little bit you do tell me, I practically have to pry out of you. Is there something going on with your mom, or...what are you hiding? _Why_ are you hiding?"

"Because I'm fucking embarrassed, all right?" he yells. His palm rubs across his forehead, stretching his skin. "And...there are just some things that aren't any of your business, Bella."

"I thought_ you_ were my business now," I say. Because if he isn't, then what are we even doing? "I feel like I don't know you at all."

"You don't? You don't know me?" He's _so_ angry, he's trembling from it.

"I don't know. Right now I don't know," I say, raising my arms.

"What _do_ you wanna know?"

"_You_, Edward," I say, pointing my finger at his chest. "I wanna know _you_."

"Me?" He roughly runs his hands through his hair.

"Yes."

"You wanna know me, huh? What do you want me to tell you?" I've never seen him like this before, all raw nerves and emotion that rolls off of him with every word.

"Anything." _Everything_.

"Anything? All right. You wanna know that I'm not sure where I'm going to be living at the end of the month? That I bust my ass every day, and I've got almost_ nothing_ to show for it? That's what you wanna hear?" He folds his arms across his chest, like he's trying to protect himself, to keep me away.

"Yes," I whisper.

"You want me to tell you that when you're sick, I can't be the guy who surprises you with soup, and medicine, and everything you need to feel better? I have to take your-"

"I don't _need_ you to be that," I say quickly, crying hot tears in the hot sun. I reach out for him, but he pulls away. Or, maybe I'm pushing him. I've tried so hard not to push him, yet here we are.

"You should want that kind of guy, Bella. I want to be him," he says fiercely, clapping his hand over his heart. "You don't know how fucking bad I want to be him, but I_ can't_ right now." He's so broken, and I'm cracking those pieces into even smaller ones.

"I don't want that guy. I want _you_," I cry. It's so frustrating that he's not really _hearing_ what I'm telling him. Why doesn't he understand?

"I can't even take you out to dinner." His voice is loud, but full of defeat, and I hate every last word he says because of it.

"I don't need you to do that, Edward," I say, touching his arm. "I can make my own dinner. I can make yours, too."

"Is that what you've been doing?" His eyes snap up, wide, and he's full of fire again.

"What?"

"I don't want your goddamn pity," he spits, yanking himself out from under my hand so quickly it looks like I've shocked him.

"I don't_ pity _you," I say, sniffling. "I _care_ about you. Why won't you let me?"

He's not hearing me though, because he's fourteen again, and it's just him against the world and there's nothing to do but fight. "So you've been sneaking me food, like I'm too stupid to realize what you're doing?"

"No," I say emphatically, pressing my palm against my stomach. "I sneak you food because you're too _proud _to _accept_ what I'm doing."

"What the hell do you know about my pride?" His chest is heaving from our heated words, but I'm not going to back down.

"Only what you told me," I say, my voice strong, and almost too loud. "You think I can just pretend I don't see it? What kind of person would that make me? You stand here and have the audacity to tell me what kind of person _I _should want? Shouldn't _you_ want someone who notices how tired you are, and tries to make things easier for you? Someone who sees you eating peanut butter and jelly every day, and watches you save take-out to eat later, and cares enough to give you more than that? To want you to _have_ more than that? If it were me, wouldn't you do the same thing?"

"Of course I would, but this is different," he says, shaking his head.

"Like hell it is," I say, roughly wiping my face with my hand. "Why, because I'm a woman and you're a man?"

"You don't understand." He moves away, only a few inches that feel like a mile. His head hangs low, and he's right. I don't.

"Help me then," I say, bridging that gap. "Help me understand."

"You can't fix me, Bella. This can't be fixed. I've tried, and...I can't fix it..." He looks so weary, like he's lived ten lifetimes.

"I don't want to fix you," I say, reaching up to cup his face, and his eyes close as my thumb brushes across his cheek. I don't know if he needs or wants to hear this—maybe it'll scare him—but I'm brave enough to say it now, so I do. "All I want to do is love you."

There it is. The most basic, simplistic reason why I'm here. I want to_ love_ him.

The words hang in the air for way too long, and I'm starting to regret them-

"I want that, too," he says, turning his head to kiss my wrist.

I'm relieved, and sad. "It doesn't work this way, Edward," I reply. "It can't. It _won't_."

He nods, but doesn't say anything. I guess maybe this is it.

My arm falls to my side because I'm feeling defeated, and embarrassed, and not at all the way I'm used to feeling when I'm around him. We could stand and yell at each other for the rest of the afternoon, but it won't do either of us any good to continue this here.

"You should go back to the game," I mutter, pointing toward the crowd. "The kids will be disappointed if they look for you and you're not there."

He's quiet for a minute. "Okay," he finally whispers. He moves a step closer to me, and then rocks back on his heel, and it makes my heart sink. "I'll call you later."

"No, don't." I swallow against the lump in my throat, because it doesn't want to let me say the words, but they need to come out. They _have_ to. "Call me when you're ready to stop hiding."

I turn and start walking, because if I stay, I'll _stay_.

"Bella, wait!" he shouts.

I don't. I_ can't_, because I only have an ounce of strength left, and I need to get far away from him before I lose it. So, I run. Across the buttery sunlight that covers the grass, away from the park, away from Edward, away from everything.

When I get home, I sit on the edge of my bed, turning my phone in the palm of my hand, because it feels like my lifeline. As the hours pass, the daylight fades, and there's no call or text.

For once, it probably would've been better for me to stay at my parents' house.

The next morning I get up, and check my phone. Nothing. Nothing at noon, nothing at six, nothing at seven-thirty. Nothing at eight. Nothing but me sitting around and waiting for a call that might not ever come. Nothing but me with my head in my hands, wishing I could take back the past twenty-four hours, all the while hoping that maybe, in the long run, this might be a _good_ thing for us.

If an 'us' even exists anymore.

I try to go to sleep early just to pass the time, but I can't get comfortable. I try to make my couch into a bed like Edward did, hoping it'll help me rest, hoping it'll help me feel closer to him. It doesn't. All I can do is hope, and try, and wait.

And there's nothing. Nothing but the steady pounding of rain against my windows, and the rustle of the sheets as I toss and turn. There's nothing.

_Nothing._

Until the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs carries over the storm, and the knock on my door breaks through the thunder that rumbles outside.

I don't even hesitate; I stand up and scurry to unlock it like I knew this would happen all along, even though I didn't. I just hoped, and waited, and now there's_ something_.

There's Edward standing in front of me with his wet hair hanging over his eyes, clothes droopy and soaked from the storm. He slides his fingertip down the door frame, and the humid air blows my hair away from my face before my eyes finally meet his, illuminated by lightning.

"Can I come in?"


	12. Newton's First Law of Motion

**Chapter Twelve**

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_**Newton's First Law of Motion:**__ A body continues in its state of constant velocity (which may be zero) unless it is acted upon by an external force._

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The occasional clap of thunder outside muffles the low hum that carries through my apartment as the dryer warms the water out of Edward's rain-drenched clothes. I sit on the edge of the sofa, sliding my fingers along the seam of the sheet that covers my makeshift bed, wondering how it's only been a few weeks since the two of us were last here like this.

I can't help but be jealous of how easy Edward had it then. When I was sick, he had the benefit of medical training; of knowing exactly what he could do that would make me feel better. Here I am, flying blind, with nothing but hands he can hold on to, and ears that are ready to listen. I'm lost, because I know that it'll take more than chicken soup and cold medicine to soothe his ache. Physical pain is so much easier to heal.

I hear the water in the shower stop running, and all the time I took to calm my nerves while Edward washed the weather off of him goes to waste as my heart speeds up. I can't stop staring at the light under my bedroom door—a long, narrow strip of amber—waiting for the shadows that will tell me he's coming.

The rhythmic scraping of the button on Edward's jeans against the inside of the dryer distracts me as my knees bounce with anticipation, and when my bedroom door finally opens, my whole body is electric. Edward walks out, barefoot, wearing a pair of Emmett's old sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt that shows off the tone of his upper body. Everything about him sags: his shoulders, his lips, even his damp hair that kisses the nape of his neck and curls around his ears.

Edward takes a deep breath before looking over at me, and he reaches up to rub his right shoulder with his left hand, his arm crossing over his chest like a shield. My eyes meet his, and we're worlds apart, even here in this small room. The distance between us now almost seems insurmountable, even though I could take six steps and wrap myself in his arms in a heartbeat.

He slowly walks forward, his feet shuffling against the carpet as he moves. Now that he's near me, it feels like everything else has just fallen away; the only noise I hear comes from him. He lowers himself to sit on the coffee table, right across from me, then scoots up to the edge, his long legs spread so that his knees are on either side of my thighs. It's as if he wants to block me in, because he thinks I'm going to run away. The funny thing is that before he showed up, I was afraid he would do the very same thing.

He leans in toward me—so close—wet hair splayed across his forehead, smelling like my shampoo. His fingertips trail along the sheet covering the sofa, and this sad kind of smile lifts the corner of his lips. Does seeing that I did this give him as much comfort as doing it gave me?

My hands rest on my lap, all twisted up to keep myself from reaching out for him. I want to, so badly. I wonder if he knows? Can he see how hard it is for me not to touch him? Can he feel it?

He must be able to, because his fingertips reach out and tentatively graze across my skin, over the backs of my fingers, unraveling the knot that they made all twined together. His fingers lace through mine now that they're free, and he's so slow about it; warming me up to him. It works, too, because I _feel_ warm, the way I always do when he touches me. I get a thrill from this one simple gesture that makes my insides go crazy, but now that we're in uncharted territory, it scares me to realize that I can't turn this feeling off.

I shift my body toward him, because his hands in mine and his legs on either side of me just aren't enough, even though I wish they could be. He moves forward too, and when his forehead touches mine, I close my eyes. It'd be so easy for me to just melt into him; to climb onto his lap, wrap my arms and legs around him, and let my body make me part of his.

I'm so far gone that it scares me, even now. _Especially_ now.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks, looking at me through tired, heavy eyes.

Am I mad at him? I thought I was at first, but now that he's here, where I am is so far from where I was yesterday that I don't even know if I could put a name to what's going on inside of me. Whatever I'm feeling makes my stomach churn and my nerves rattle, but I don't think it's anger.

"I didn't lie to you," he says, squeezing my fingers. "It's important that you know that."

Now I _am_ mad. It's strange how a few simple words can give a name to the nameless, and whip everything inside of me into the worst kind of frenzy. I pull away from him, and Edward puts his hands on my thighs to hold me in place long enough for him to qualify his statement.

"How can you say that-"

"I didn't," he pleads, reaching out for me, palms up. I dodge his touch, and sit back, far away from him. The distance is better; it makes it easier for me to think clearly.

"You might not have lied, Edward," I say, folding my arms over my chest, because now _I'm_ the one who needs a shield, "but you weren't honest, either. There's a_ world_ of difference." It's a difference that will either make or break this thing between us, and he knows it. It's in every move he makes, every look he gives me.

He takes a deep breath, and nods. "That's why I'm here."

Ugh, how does he do that? He makes me crazy and calms me down, all at the same time.

I grip the backs of his knees with my hands. Not tightly; just enough to give me something to hold onto, to let him know that I'm not a hostile audience. It's better if I have control of this situation, and now I feel like I've got it.

"You can trust me. I mean, I know we haven't been together that long, but-"

"I _do_ trust you," he says. He runs his fingers through his hair, and his head hangs low. "I'm just nervous. Or…scared, I guess." He says that so reluctantly it's like I've pried the words from his lips.

"Of what?"

He sighs. "Of losing the bubble that I feel like I'm in when I'm with you."

He's alluded to this bubble before in roundabout ways, and I've always been glad to be able to give him some kind of escape. Now, though, whether it's from the tone of his voice or the look in his eyes, I don't know, but I'm starting to realize that this bubble isn't altogether a very good thing.

"That goes both ways, you know," I say, gently rubbing the backs of his calves before my hands move up to the sides of his thighs. His muscles are so tense, and I want him to relax, especially when he's with me.

"What do you mean?"

"You're scared you're going to lose the bubble, and I'm scared of what's going to happen when you don't need it anymore."

He quickly sits up, as if I've startled him. "You think that's the only reason I'm with you?" His eyebrows are all scrunched together, and he almost looks...hurt?

"No," I say, trying to reassure him. "This feels like too much to just be a distraction, but...you're not the only one with something to lose here. The only difference is that I've already laid myself out on the line, and you just don't want to, or-"

"I _do_ want to, it's just that-"

"I know, I know. You need the bubble."

"No. _No_. That's not it. I just...I don't talk about this stuff. That night you were sick, that's...it's the most I've shared with anyone. Ever."

The small surge of pride that rushes through me at his admission makes me feel selfish, and a little braver. "I'm not asking you to tell me your life story right now, Edward. But I can't let myself fall for a guy who won't be honest with me about who he is."

He lets out this sardonic little laugh. "I thought I'd learned how to be a man when I was fourteen; taking care of my mom and all that, but over the past month or so I've started to realize that I don't know shit about it."

"What do you mean?" I ask, confused.

He sighs. "I've always thought admitting that you have a weakness makes you weak, and that asking for help makes you helpless."

"That hiding your problems makes them go away?" I know that much is true based on what little bit he _has_ told me.

"How can you always see through my bullshit? I don't even think you realize you're doing it half the time." He sounds awed, and it makes me want to smile.

"It's not as hard as you think it is," I say, giving him a gentle squeeze. His fingers slip between mine and our hands rest on his lap. "Besides, there are some things that words can't cover up."

"Maybe." He turns his head toward the window for a moment before looking back at me. "I think you're just the only one who ever thought it was worth your time to really try to _see_ me."

"It's because I care about you, in spite of your initial attempts to make me feel otherwise." He smiles halfheartedly, and even that's the best kind of victory right now. "There are a million reasons why. Maybe one day we'll get to the point where I can tell you all of them, and by then there might be a million more. But not a single one is because I pity you, or because I think I can fix you."

"I was mad when I said that."

"I know, but that doesn't mean you weren't thinking it."

The dryer buzzes through the quiet, and it's a long while before Edward speaks again.

"I never knew what it was like to be happy," he finally says. His head is hung low, and he's looking up at me through the fringe of his lashes. "You're the good part of my life, and I feel like if I mix _this_," he motions between the two of us, "with everything else, I'll lose it. Lose _you_."

"I'm not going anywhere," I say, even though it's a promise I know I can't keep. I mean it now, because, God help me, at this point it'd take everything in me to walk away from him. "We don't have to do this tonight."

"Yes we do." He's got this look in his eyes that I've never seen before, all fire, and resolve, and determination. "I've been thinking about what I was going to say for the past day...I just don't know where to start."

My chest tightens, because if he can't even find a jumping off point, there's no telling how far the fall's gonna be.

"Start wherever's easiest."

"Easy," he whispers bitterly, looking down at our laced fingers. I can't tell where I end and he begins. We're all tangled up together, there's no denying it now. It gives me comfort to see physical proof of it, as the silence between us hangs heavy as an anvil over my head. The seconds tick past, and I make a list of all the things he could tell me now that would make me want to end this. Unsurprisingly, it's very small.

Then he slowly slips away from me. He slides back on the coffee table until we're no longer touching, until our jumble of fingers and hands are separate and defined. I feel like he would move to the other side of the room if he could, the other side of the city, or the state, even.

He doesn't, though. He stays just out of reach, and my heart sinks as I rest my elbows on my knees and wait for him to tell me his secrets.

"I lost my house," he finally says, as his worried green eyes find mine. They're just words—groups of letters—but the way they slip through his lips, dripping with shame and regret, they're _everything_. "It belonged to my parents. Well, my mom, now. It's where I grew up, and my dad..."

I can see the muscles in his throat flex as he swallows, and he takes a sip from the glass of water I'd forgotten I poured for him while he was in the shower.

"How?" My voice is soft, careful, even though I'm not exactly surprised. He told me yesterday that he didn't know where he'd be living at the end of the month, but if this is the easiest thing for him to tell me, I can't even fathom the rest of this conversation.

He tilts his head back, and rubs his cheek with his palm. "There are a few reasons, I guess, but the one common denominator is me. It's...complicated."

"I have all night," I say gently.

He takes a deep breath, and my lungs ache like I'm holding mine.

"Have you ever tried to be something for someone, just because they wanted it so badly?"

After years of living with my mother, I could be asking him the very same question. "Yes," I whisper.

Edward exhales in one long gust of breath. "How do I say this?" He picks at a small hole in the hem at the bottom of his shirt, and his eyelids shut tight before he rubs the skin above his eyebrows with his index finger and thumb.

I feel like I'm about to jump out of my skin.

"Eight months or so after my dad died, my mom started to come out of it, but she still had her days," he says, rubbing his hands across his thighs. "When I was about sixteen, I came home from school one afternoon, and she was cleaning out the hall closet. There was shit everywhere. That closet probably hadn't been touched in years. She was just sitting on the floor with an old t-shirt that belonged to my dad in her hands, and one of his med school textbooks open on her lap.

"She had to have been sitting there for most of the day, crying. She didn't even look up at me; she was just flipping through the pages of the book. I'll never forget it, she said, 'I would've been able to save him if I knew what any of this meant.'" He rests his elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together, rubbing the pads of his thumbs against each other so roughly that the beds of his fingernails turn white. He seems far away, lost in this bad place he doesn't want to remember, but too caught up in to forget.

"Once I got her to bed, and I cleaned up the mess, I took every one of those books." His eyes snap to mine, and he's back here with me. "I was determined to learn every damn word on every page of those books, even if it killed me. For her, for my dad..."

"You did," I say quietly, gently resting my palm on his knee. He doesn't flinch or move away, so I slowly glide my thumb across his soft cotton pants.

"Yeah," he says with this small laugh. "It would've been great if medicine just involved memorization and comprehension. There's that pesky practical application part of it, which I tried and failed miserably. All on her dime."

"What do you mean?"

"When I started middle school, Dad sat me down in his study to talk about my long-term goals. He was always saying things like, 'Make big plans for your life, Edward. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't do something.' The man was a walking motivational poster," he says, with this sad, beautiful smile. It's the kind of smile that makes me wish I could've known the man he's talking about. "He told me that the most important thing a person could invest in is his mind."

"That's a very 'dad' thing to say," I tell him. My father told me something similar, although he was far less eloquent about it.

"Yeah," he replies, his eyes a little glassy. "That's the kind of guy he was. He and his father were estranged, and he wanted it to be different for us."

The way Edward talks about his father—all pride, love, and adoration—there's no doubt in my mind that it was.

"He told me he was putting money away for my education, because he didn't want me to be saddled with debt like he was when he first started out. He asked me what I wanted to be, and all I told him was that I wanted to be just like him. He never pushed me," Edward says, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. "But he wanted it, I could tell.

"After he died, when I told my mom that I was seriously considering becoming a doctor, she just...lit up. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen her so happy," he says, with this ghost of a smile on his lips. "But since Dad was gone, I didn't want to take the money. Not for undergrad or med school." Edward's voice has this agitated edge to it that I can tell he's so desperately trying to dull, but it's not working. "I took out a loan behind her back for my freshman year, and when she found out, I'd never seen her so pissed. She was adamant that I take the money Dad had saved for me, told me that all he wanted was for me to have it. She knew that'd get me."

"You think she manipulated you?" I'm afraid this is starting to sound like an interrogation, but I feel like he needs me to guide him. I'm so far in the dark that I'm grasping at any bit of light I can see.

"No, I know why she did it." He sounds angry at first, then kind of resigned as he glides his thumb across the back of my hand. "There was a time when she…she couldn't be my mother, and she thought I gave up my childhood to take care of her. Maybe I did, but I would do it all over again," he says emphatically, trying to convince me of something I already believe. "I would."

"I know," I tell him, squeezing his fingers.

"She felt like she owed me something." He practically spits the words out, like they're poison, like-

I finally put two and two together.

"You didn't have a college fund, did you?" I ask.

Edward's breathing steadies as he traces this nonsensical pattern along the back of my hand with his fingertip. It makes all the tiny hairs on my arm stand on end, commanding my nerves while the repetition seems to be calming his.

"I did," he says, his memory-dulled eyes looking into mine. "But it wasn't nearly enough. I guess my dad, he...he thought he had more time."

Of course he did. Because Edward's father probably didn't think he was going to die in his forties, leaving behind a son who thought the world of him, and a wife who obviously did, too.

"I don't understand how that-"

"He loved us," Edward says, pressing his hand against his chest. "He didn't leave us with nothing, he wouldn't have done that." He takes a deep breath before he begins again. "He just...made a few bad investments, and my parents were in debt. My mom was overwhelmed, and she never told me. She was too goddamn proud to let anyone know she was in trouble."

I reach up to touch his face, and the stubble that shadows his chin scratches my fingertips. Like mother, like son, and he doesn't even see it.

"You were_ fourteen_, Edward. How could you have known any of this?"

His green eyes turn brilliant in his anger, cold and narrow. The feel of the pattern he was tracing along the back of my hand is burned into my skin, even though he's stopped. I take my hand and clasp it over his to remind him that I'm not his enemy in this, hoping he'll stop the self-flagellation.

"Yeah, I _was _fourteen, Bella. But then I was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen,_ twenty_. Things didn't get really bad until the past couple of years, but we could've gotten a handle on it if I'd known back then. I just went off to college and left her behind, because all I could see was a chance to not have to worry all the damn time. To be _normal_."

"You were just a kid-"

"I was off partying at school, and she was alone, paying for things she had no fucking business paying for. My life was different from other kids my age. I had accepted that."

"It's okay if you wanted to forget it for a while."

He slides his hand out from under mine, and threads our fingers loosely together. We're not as close as we were before, but we're closer, and that makes this feel a little less uncertain.

"Besides, your mom's heart was in the right place." I don't even know the woman, but I ache for her. How can I not feel for a mother who wanted to find some way to relieve the crushing burden that life put on her son's shoulders? That she thought _she_ added to?

"Her heart would've been in the right place if she'd had the money to give. And what did I do? I spent _two years _in med school when I knew after the _first semester_ I wasn't cut out to be a doctor. Do you know how much a year at Dartmouth costs? She might as well have set that money on fire."

"I don't know how much it costs."

"Over fifty thousand dollars," he says slowly. Or maybe it just sounds slow as I let the number sink in. "I had scholarships, but they barely covered a fourth of the cost."

"Jesus," I whisper.

"I_ never_ should've taken that money. I was so fucking stupid."

I clasp my hand behind his knee, and pull him closer to me. I feel like if he's close to me now, he'll _feel_ what I'm about to say to him. Like the words will be marked on his skin for him to see whenever this guilt tugs at him and threatens to pull him under.

"You took what she offered you, Edward. You took what your father told you was yours, what she wanted you to have because he wasn't there to give it to you," I say, gripping his hand. "I would've taken it; my brother would've taken it. I don't know a single eighteen-year-old who would turn down an offer to graduate scot-free."

"It's not that simple," he says, shaking his head.

"It _is_ that simple. It's easy to see now that you know what you know. You couldn't have seen it back then."

"Sometimes I think it's better if I don't see things."

"What do you mean?"

He rubs the back of his neck, and takes a deep breath as the hand I'm holding tenses up. The look on his face makes my stomach roll, and I know we're moving into the less-easy part of the story.

"My mom got laid off about six months ago," he says, pressing his lips together. "She never told me. She kept having me over for Sunday dinners like she didn't have a care in the fucking world; smiling, acting like the worst part of her day was burning the crust on one of her goddamn pies."

Even through the anger that's pulsing through Edward's lips, I'm stricken by the love his mother has for him, how all she seems to want is for him to have a normal life. The method probably wasn't the greatest, but the affection behind it is overwhelming.

"How did you find out?"

"I accidentally knocked a pile of her mail onto the floor. When I picked it up, I found a letter from the bank about the mortgage on the house."

When he looks at me, all I can see is the fourteen-year-old boy who grew into the twenty-seven-year-old man sitting in front of me, who still carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"What did she do when you found it?"

"She was upset, but she finally came clean about everything she'd been hiding: her job, her debt. And…she's my mom, you know? I couldn't just let her struggle. My lease was up in a couple of months, so I paid it out, and moved in with her," he explains. "I wanted to help her, but…I really wanted to save the house. That's...that's all I could see."

"Edward, I don't think you give yourself enough credit-"

He cuts me off, because when he's ticking off his failings, he doesn't want to listen to reason.

"She sent her resume out everywhere, but she couldn't find a job. She'd always been a good cook, so I suggested she do some catering on the side, because we needed the money. We_ really _needed the money."

"It was a good idea." I'm trying to give him something, _anything_. But he doesn't want to hear it.

"She had taken this job out in Tacoma, but she didn't want to do it. The drive out there versus the money she'd make…she didn't see the point. I think she was just tired…she needed a rest, but…I convinced her that we weren't in a position to turn it down." He slowly shakes his head, and swallows. "She called me before she left to let me know she was on her way home. She was running late, and it was raining pretty hard. I meant to wait up for her, but I was tired, and I fell asleep."

My heart is pounding from this ominous feeling that slips over my shoulders and gets heavier and thicker with every word he says.

"A cop knocked on the door a little after five in the morning. She fell asleep while she was driving. Hit a tree, and…"

"_Edward_," I whisper, brushing the backs of my fingers across his cheek. He leans into my touch, but keeps going. Somehow, he has the strength to keep going.

"She's been at Northwest Hospital ever since."

I wrap my hands around his, kissing his knuckles as I pull him toward me. I want to wrap myself around him and hold on tight.

"I had a fight with her that night," he says, his voice wavering. He squeezes my fingers, and tilts his head down to rest his forehead against them. "She didn't want to go, but I laid a guilt trip on her."

"It's not your fault," I whisper.

"Her whole body was broken: her legs, her arm, her ribs." When his red-rimmed eyes meet mine again, there's a little bit of hope in them that makes my heart feel lighter. "She's doing better now. She's learning how to walk again."

That revelation seems to ease him a bit, make his shoulders relax and his muscles loosen.

"When did this happen?"

"The accident happened a month or so before you started. She's going to be released soon, but she's got piss-poor insurance, and a long road ahead of her. And you know, after all that, who gives a fuck about a house?" he says, a new wave of anger making his eyes blaze. "_I_ did. My mom's recovering in a hospital room, and I couldn't stop fighting for a goddamn house."

"I thought you said you lost the house."

"I did. _We_ did. But I fought like hell to keep it," he says. He twists his fingers out from between mine, and they feel cold now without him. I want to touch him, to reassure him in any way that I can, but if he needs his space, I'll give it to him. "Remember that day in the copy room?"

"When the toner vomited all over your shirt?" I'm trying to make him laugh, and it works.

"When you made me realize that I was acting like an asshole," he replies, tracing a finger across my wrist. The tickle on my skin and the man who puts it there make me feel like we're anywhere but here.

"When you made me realize you weren't such an asshole after all." He grins, but it's short-lived.

"I was making copies of my financials to take to the bank, to see if I could get a loan to buy the house. I'd been turned down countless times; it's way more than I can afford. I don't even know why I bothered, but it was this guy Garrett knew, so I hoped-"

"Garrett knows?"

Edward shrugs. "He knows the bare minimum. I had to tell him something, since I needed him to help me out with my leave. He's done a lot for me."

I feel this surprising surge of affection toward Garrett; one that wells up in my chest and makes my throat tighten. "His friend couldn't help you?"

"No," he breathes. "It's amazing how far busting your ass for fifty plus hours a week and working two jobs on the side _won't_ get you."

"The house-"

"Sold," he says quickly. "I couldn't let it go into foreclosure. Selling it made me feel like we had some kind of say in the matter. And you know what the most fucked up thing is?"

"No."

"All of this? My mom's accident, me busting my ass…it was for _nothing_."

"Why nothing?" I'm so scared to hear the answer to this question.

"Once she was out of ICU, I'd sleep in her room some nights," he says, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands are clasped together, gripping one another so tightly that his skin's an angry mix of red and white. "I was scared I'd get a call in the middle of the night, and not be able to make it in time. One night I was there, and I don't know…I must've been so exhausted that I just konked out right by her bed. When I woke up, she was running her fingers through my hair, and she looked so peaceful. She told me she didn't want the house. She didn't want to live there anymore, and she didn't want me fighting for it."

"Why not?" I ask, touching his knee.

"Because she saw him everywhere," he says, running his fingers through his hair. "She said there were too many memories in every room of that house, and that she felt like she couldn't move on. She felt like she was stuck there living in the past, loving someone who wasn't ever going to come back."

"That's understandable," I whisper.

"There's this ugly spot in the upstairs hallway, right outside of my room. He patched the wall after I kicked my soccer ball through it, because I was playing in the house when he told me not to." Edward blinks his wet eyes quickly, and brushes the back of his hand across his nose. "He wrote measurements for the patio he never finished on the drywall next to the sliding glass door in our basement. His handwriting is still _right there_," he says, holding one hand up, his palm flat. "He built me a tree house in the back yard. The ladder is creaky, and the third step broke off when he chased me up there when I was seven. I used to wonder what it would feel like to see my kids to play up there some day."

I swipe at the hot tears that fall down my cheeks, and hide my face so that he can't see me crying.

"So, I understand where she's coming from," he says. When I look up, he's rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "She can have ten more husbands if she wants to, but he'll always be my only father. The thing is…those were my memories, too. And I wanted to keep them."

He's just sitting in front of me, sad eyes watching mine, with his shoulders straight and his head held high. How does he do it? How does he breathe in and out, and keep moving and living like his whole world hasn't fallen apart? I can't imagine all the strength he has having lived through that, when just hearing the story makes my chest ache. And what can I tell him? That he can make more memories in a strange house with perfect hallways, and patios, and tree houses in the back yard?

I can't tell him that, because I go home to Forks and walk into a house where my height throughout elementary school is marked in my mother's handwriting on the back of the pantry door. Where I still sleep in the bed I slept in when I was ten, and still swing on the swing that's hung from the porch for as long as I can remember.

There's nothing I can say to make it better.

So, I lean forward and thread my fingers through his, because his hands have been empty for far too long. I pull myself onto his lap, because he shouldn't be alone anymore, and he needs to feel the weight of a person he doesn't need to support. And I kiss him. I kiss his cheek, and his neck, and his soft, warm lips, too, because I want them to know that someday they'll have so many wonderful stories to tell.

"I have to find a place for us to live," he says, his breath hot on my cheek as he holds me close. "She needs home health care, and therapy, and fuck if I know how I'm going to pay for it. I take each penny that comes in and I hold on tight, because...what if I don't have enough?"

"You _will_ have enough," I say, because I refuse to believe otherwise. When someone goes through something like this, and has such a pure, giving heart, things have to turn around for them at some point. Edward's time will come, I know it.

"I feel sick half the time, and I can't sleep. But I can't be mad at her, because I came so close to losing..." He can't even say the words.

"Is she the one you talk to on the phone all the time?"

"Yes. Would you believe this has made us closer?"

"I believe it," I say, kissing his cheek. That just goes to show what kind of people they are; things like this usually tear families apart. "I wish you didn't feel like you had to hide this from me."

"I hid it from everyone, but...once I started talking, it was kind of hard to stop."

"Therapeutic word vomit?" I tease, mostly because I want to see if he can still smile.

He can, and his smile makes me smile right back. "Exactly," he laughs. "Thank you for listening to it."

"Thank you for letting me listen."

He holds me as I trace the deep lines that crisscross his palm, from his thumb to his pinky and back again. It's peaceful like this, and I wonder if he feels it as much as I do.

"I have so much baggage, Bella," he says, before pressing his lips to my temple. "A relationship with me is probably more than you bargained for."

"I don't recall bargaining for anything." It makes me so sad, the way that he's trying to talk me out of falling in love with him. I want to tell him it's too late, but he'll think it's for all the wrong reasons, so I kiss him instead.

We sit like this for a few more minutes, until Edward fights back a yawn, and I'm surprised when I see that it's nearly midnight. Once I've looked at the clock, my body starts to realize how late it is. My eyes get heavy, ready to sleep off the day.

I peel myself away from Edward and stand, stretching the tension out of my muscles. He puts his hands on my hips, then rests his head against my belly, as his thumbs tickle the skin that's exposed between the waist of my pants and hem of my top. I run my fingers through his hair, so soft and smooth after his shower, then take his hands in mine and pull him to his feet.

"C'mon," I say, leading the way into my bedroom. Edward follows close behind me, and his feet shuffle across the carpet as I turn the lights off in one room, on in the next.

I can't bring his father back, and I can't heal his mother. I can't save his house, and I can't pad his bank account. What I can do is offer him a soft place to lay his head, and a warm body to hold him while he sleeps. So, that's what I do.

My open curtains cast soft moonlit squares across my bed after I flip off the light switch that's next to the door. Edward gravitates toward the right side, the one that was always _his_, and I climb my way up to my pillows, not even bothering to get under the covers.

Once we're both comfortable, I tuck myself into Edward's side, underneath his arm. I rest my head on his chest, and his hand finds my shoulder, where there's too little fabric, and not enough nerves to do the feel of his skin justice.

He yawns again, a deep, hollow breath that makes his chest rise like a wave, that pulls his shirt up just a few inches at the bottom. Even in the dark, I can see the small patch of hair there that disappears into gray cotton. I bring my hand up to that spot, warm and smooth, his muscles hard beneath my fingers. I don't trust myself to leave it there, so I slide it up beneath his shirt, where Edward rests his hand on top of mine.

I didn't think the first night Edward Cullen was in my bed would be spent like this, but as his breathing steadies and the curves of my body melt into his, I realize there's something to be said for just sleeping.

I close my eyes as Edward's fingers swirl lackadaisical patterns on my bare shoulder, and let much-needed sleep pull me under.

When I wake up in the morning, the sheets on Edward's side of the bed are wrinkled, but cool from the absence of his body. I sit up and rub my eyes, to see if I'm as alone as I feel. The clothes Edward wore to bed last night are neatly folded on top of my dresser, and I look around to see if there are any other traces of him. I smile when I see one of my red tea plates on my nightstand with a rainbow-sprinkled donut on top.

That smile gets even bigger when I find the note he's written on the corner of the napkin that's folded underneath the plate.

_I have an early meeting-I wish I could've stayed. I'll be Lincoln about you all morning. –E_

It's such a lame and cute little joke that I can't help but let loose this bubble of laughter that bounces around in my chest. I never thought a message written on two-ply throwaway paper could make me feel so giddy, but since I've been with Edward, I'm starting to recognize the potential in even the smallest things.

After I tuck the napkin into my drawer, I sit up and lean back against the headboard, grabbing Edward's pillow as I go. The teenage girl in me can't help but bring it up to her face so she can press her cheek against it. So she can smell the smell of the boy who slept in her bed last night. I'm all fluttery inside, and it seems wrong to feel this way when everything about Edward's life is so heavy. Then again, maybe this is what lightens him up, what buoys him. There can't be anything bad about that.

With the pillow clutched tightly to my chest, I take a bite of the donut, savoring the sugar as I lick it from my lips.

I swear this one tastes sweeter than the others.

The morning traffic passes like it always does, slow and tedious, because it doesn't care how anxious I am to step foot into my office. It doesn't recognize changes in relationships, either, or understand how badly I just need to see _his_ face. Rush hour can be such a pain in the ass that way.

Apparently the universe doesn't care about my hurry, either, because when I walk through the door a few minutes earlier than I usually do, Edward's nowhere to be found. My stomach sinks with the sharp weight of disappointment, but I say my good mornings, trudge over to my desk, and get started with my day.

I wish I could stop my eyes from looking at his empty chair every few minutes, because it makes the time he's not sitting in it seem like an eternity.

When Edward finally comes in at quarter after nine, the worry lines that crease his forehead melt away as he looks at me, and I have to grip the bottom of my desk to keep myself from getting up to go to him. He makes me want him too much, and I think this place increases all of that tenfold, because I know I can't have him here. I have to watch myself. Some days it's thrilling, like part of a game; others, it's nearly torture. Today, it _is_ torture.

Edward grins at me when he sits down at his desk, and this warmth wells up inside of me that spreads beneath my skin. I know that some morning soon, we'll open our eyes all tangled up in sheets after a long night of doing everything _but _sleeping. Somehow though, lying together all bundled up in each other's arms, after Edward shared things with me he's never shared with anyone else before, almost seems more intimate than anything we could've done with our clothes off. I feel it now when he looks at me, even here, across desks and beneath fluorescent lights.

I'm thinking about the way Edward's fingers brushed the side of my hip last night, just a ghost of a feeling that still lingers on my skin, when an email from him pops up on my screen. The message is short and completely benign, reading a simple:_ Coffee? _

Shelly mumbles morning greetings as I follow Edward out toward the elevator. When he reaches forward to press the call button, the sunlight hits his face, highlighting the small, purplish bags underneath his eyes. I don't know why I'm surprised to see him look so tired; it's not like I thought one night in my bed would magically heal him, but there's something off.

"Did you sleep?" I ask. I reach out to touch his face, but a creaking door somewhere behind me stops me short. I have _got _to be more careful about controlling my reflexes; the closer we become, the more I automatically reach out for him. Doing that in a meeting or in front of one of my coworkers would be a very bad thing.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, and looks down at the floor. "Not really," he says, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. Maybe I just can't anymore. If I could've, I would've last night." He gives me this cute, sleepy grin that calms the nerves in my stomach.

The elevator doors barely have time to close before I stretch up on my tiptoes to press my lips against Edward's. It's nothing more than a quick peck, because we stop on the next floor, but it's enough to put a huge smile on his face.

A friendly-looking old man steps in, and Edward and I move back against the far wall. I rest my hands on the railing as we descend the last few floors, but when Edward's pinky finger slides against mine, and he smiles that smile that brings out my dimple, I feel like I'm on my way back up again.

A few minutes later, with our cups in hand, Edward and I begin our retreat back to the tenth floor. The two sips of coffee that he's taken seem to have woken him up a bit, and he's a little more talkative than he was before he'd had a hit of caffeine.

"Thank you for breakfast," I say, smiling against the lip of my cup.

"It's the least I could do." His soft eyes say more than his words ever could, and I shove my curled-up fist in my pocket so I don't reach out to hold his hand. I long for the feel of his fingers between mine.

"Are you busy later tonight?" I figure if my mouth's moving, it'll make my hands forget they have more important places to be.

"I have an apartment to look at, and I'm going to go visit my mom." The last few words come slowly, like he's still not sure he wants to tell me these things. I frown, and turn my head so he doesn't see. "Why?"

"Well, I was just wondering if you might have time for some dinner? Nothing fancy or anything...at the park maybe? It's nice outside, and it'll be fall soon, so…" Why can't I shut up?

"Bella," he says, laughing. "Dinner sounds good."

"Okay."

We keep walking, and the conversation dies. I try to pretend like nothing's wrong, but there's definitely something wrong. I start to panic a little, worried that maybe he's regretting last night, or this morning, or something in between.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, why?"

I shrug, and trace the edge of my coffee cup. "You're upset."

"I'm not." He gives me this forced smile that makes his face seem all wrong. "I have to go get something out of my car, okay? Go ahead, and I'll be up in a bit."

"Okay," I say, my voice wavering. I look down to hide the tears pricking at my eyes.

He wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me close. "I'm fine," he whispers in my ear, before kissing my cheek and disappearing into the throng of people crowding the building's front doors.

Surprise freezes my muscles for a second, because I can't believe he just did what he did here in front of everyone. It's not long before I feel a hand on my shoulder that startles me so much my coffee sloshes out onto the floor.

"Bella," Mike says. He looks toward the door before he takes my elbow and leads me out of the foot traffic.

"Mike," I say, pushing a strand of hair out of my face. I sound breathless, because I'm scared of what he just saw, and I'm trying to calm myself down. "Hey."

"You all right?" He leads me to the elevator, and presses the 'up' button. I politely pull my arm away from his grasp.

"Yeah, just have a bit of a headache is all." I don't like the lie. It's small, and weak, and I wonder if it'll be able to hold all the others that I might have to pile on top.

"I think Jess has some Tylenol if you need it." His eyes shift down to the ground, and when he looks back up at me, I know he knows what I'm hiding. When two people share the same secret, it's easier to see.

"Thanks," I reply with a tight smile. "I'll find her if I need some."

When we're in the elevator, my foot taps nervously on the ground, and I avoid Mike's gaze. He steps aside to let me out when the doors open on our floor, and as I pass him, he gives me a smile that's all him: boyish, and playful, and sincere. It feels like a trick, so I speed up my pace to get to the door before him, because I don't want to see what he does next.

I like Mike, and I don't want to watch him go to Jessica's desk, and lean over the counter. I don't want to worry about what he's saying to her when he leans in close, or have to decipher the smile and the laugh she replies with. When she gets up from her desk, I don't want to think about where she's going, or who she'll talk to, or what she'll say.

So, I push Jessica and Mike out of my mind, and dive into my work.

Throughout the day, I catch glimpses of Edward as he's catching glimpses of me. Slowly, he comes back to me. His smile becomes easier, and his eyes get brighter. Maybe what happened this morning was some kind of a glitch, and he's trying to make up for that now. I like the way Edward sits up straighter, and grins when he knows I'm watching him; so I don't tell him about Mike. I don't want to push one more worry into his crowded mind.

When the office empties out and I'm shutting my computer down, Edward's BlackBerry rings. He cradles it between his shoulder and cheek the way he always does when it's early in the evening and he's trying to finish up for the day. The ring tone is the same, and the soft smile he wears as he talks is the same.

What's different is the way he winks at me when I look in his direction, and how he doesn't try to hide anymore.

I grin, feeling like I've just been let in on some special secret, and I rip a piece of paper out of my spiral-bound notebook. The thick black Sharpie I use squeaks against the page as I write, and I get a whiff of the ink as I hold it up for Edward to see.

_6:15?_

Paper rips, and Sharpie squeaks, and he holds up a piece of paper that looks like mine, but with different writing.

_Our park?_

I smile, and nod._ Our_ park.

I pick up my bag, and race out the door.

Later, beneath the cover of an old spruce tree that anchors the far corner of _our_ park, Edward and I make up for lost time as we sit, all sprawled out on a blanket, touching, and kissing. It's semi-private here—as private as things can get in a park, at least—so I'm leaning back against Edward's chest, sitting between the 'v' that his stretched-out legs make.

"I don't think you brought enough mayonnaise, Bella," he laughs, as he digs through the paper bag full of condiments that I hastily pulled out of my kitchen drawer.

"I was in a hurry, so I just took whatever I could get my hands on." I like the way he teases me, and he knows it.

"Duck sauce?" He tosses the packet across the blanket, and hooks his arm around my waist when I move to get it.

"Hey!"

"What do you need duck sauce for?" He pulls me against him, and I don't even pretend to struggle. I want to be closer to him, not further away.

"I don't know, there could be a duck situation. You never know when one of them will need to be sauced."

"You're crazy," he says, before his lips find this spot on my neck that makes all my muscles feel weak and tingly. One of his arms is wrapped across my chest, and his hand rests gently on my shoulder. I'm tracing small hearts on his forearm, smiling like a dopey teenager writing her boyfriend's name on the front of her binder.

I'm not sure if he feels exactly what I'm doing, but when he pulls me closer and tucks his chin into the crook of my neck, I pretend that he does.

"You seem better now," I say, before popping a grape in my mouth.

"Was I bad?" He knows he was, I can tell.

"This morning you were. I thought maybe you regretted last night."

"I don't regret it, Bella." He hugs me tight, and I know that what he's saying is true. "It's just hard for me, now that you know."

"Oh." I hate sounding so disappointed.

"I think it'll just take some getting used to is all. I keep waiting for you to run away screaming."

"It's not like you kick puppies, or do something really creepy, like…Civil War reenactments."

He laughs, and leans in so close that I can feel his lips on my ear. "Well, there is something I've been meaning to tell you."

"Eat," I giggle, shoving a slice of cucumber in his mouth.

I can feel his stubbly chin graze across my shoulder as he chews. "You can't keep doing this, Bella."

"Doing what?"

"This," he says, holding his half-eaten sandwich up in front of me.

"What, you don't want me making sandwiches?" I'm sure he rolls his eyes, and part of me is glad I can't see it.

"You can make all the sandwiches you want." He licks his lips, which I will be kissing later. "I just don't want you feeding them to me."

"You don't like them?"

"Bella," he warns.

I shake myself out of his grasp, then turn around to face him, folding my legs underneath me.

"You need to eat, don't you?"

"That's not the point," he says, tossing the crust of his bread on his plate.

"Okay, then. What _is_ the point?"

He rubs his hands together, and looks to his right, where the normally crowded field is empty. "I know you mean well." He looks down at his lap, tracing his finger along the crease in his jeans. "But it makes me feel pitiful. Small."

"Are we on this pity thing again?" I try not to sound exasperated, but I can't help myself.

"_No. _I just don't like it."

"You don't like me sharing with you?"

"This isn't sharing, it's..." His eyebrows knit together as he searches for the right word, which I'm sure will wind up pissing me off.

"It's what?"

"It's charity."

I roll my eyes. "I thought we'd been through this."

"Well," he says, smiling. He knows that smile makes my knees feel like jellyfish, and it's a pity that he can be so underhanded. "We kind of yelled it at each other. I don't think we ever worked anything out."

"Look," I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "If I needed it, you'd give it, wouldn't you?"

"Yes. I already told you I would, but-"

"But nothing. Being together is give and take, Edward."

"I feel like a leech," he says, because he's not looking past material things. He tosses his napkin in the trash bag, then plants his hands along the edge of the blanket, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

"You give me more than you realize."

"Like what?"

"Like...comfort when I'm sick."

"That was just time, though. You paid for the-"

"Ugh," I groan, smacking his knee. "You've got to close out your mental ledger there, Accountant Cullen. I know you like your checks and balances, but not everything is going to be equal all the time. You picked up my snotty tissues, and showed me the beauty of the couch bed. You brought me soup, and you kept me company."

"That's nothing."

"Maybe to you, but it wasn't to me. I was in a relationship with a guy for six _years_, and not once did he so much as buy me a bag of cough drops. There'll be times when I have to take, too."

"Like when?"

"Like when I force you to be my date to my brother's wedding, and you have to keep me away from the booze so I don't have it out with my mother on the dance floor."

"Oh, shit," he says, sitting up.

"What?"

"I didn't even ask you how your weekend with your parents went," he says. His eyes are soft with regret, a look that makes me sad it took me over six years to find this man.

"Well, I came home early, so..."

His fingers brush my arm. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not right now. Later," I say, leaning over to kiss him. "Thank you for asking." My hand slides down the side of his neck, and over his collarbone, coming to rest in the center of his chest. "You have a good heart, and you're a thoughtful person, Edward. Don't worry about any of this, please."

He closes his eyes, and puts his hand over mine. "You make me thoughtful."

I kiss his chin. "You make me want to share."

His lips turn up into this slow, lazy grin that makes me feel like everything is right in the world.

"I saw a candy bar in there," he says, nodding toward the canvas bag that I packed our food in. "Are you gonna share _that_?"

I swing my leg around to straddle his thighs, because life is good right now, and I love to tease him. I lean back, stretching far to reach the bag. Edward's fingertips welcome the skin below my belly button that peeks out where my shirt rides up. I grab the bag's handle, but linger just a little longer than I need to, because I like the way Edward's eyes look when he sees me like this.

"This candy bar?" I ask, holding it between my fingers.

"Yes," Edward says, as his light touch tickles my stomach.

"No." I slowly peel the wrapper back, trying my best to concentrate on my motor skills as light touches turn into something more, something that makes my stomach muscles tighten, and my body want to bend toward him. It's not indecent or anything, it's just that Edward's evil, and he knows what he's doing. "I don't share chocolate," I say, my voice kind of shaky. "Sucks for you, and I'm sorry about that."

"Damn," he says, and because he plays dirty, he brings out the dimple, and takes advantage of my moment of weakness.

"Hey!" He's taken my chocolate hostage, holding it just out of my reach.

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Sucks for you, and I'm sorry about that." He brings the candy between his lips, and takes a long, slow bite.

My eyes get wide, my face hot. He can't just _do_ that and get away with it. Now I have the added dilemma of deciding what I want to taste more: his mouth, or the candy.

"You should see the way you look right now," he says, with this smug Cullen grin that needs to be kissed off of his face. That grin calls me to action.

I grab his wrists and put a little power behind it, pushing him back into the grass. I wrestle the candy out of his hand, and we laugh when it flies and lands near the fence, forgotten in a frenzy of small yelps, and tickles, and touches. I thread my fingers through Edward's, and I straddle his hips, my arms holding me steady above him.

"I win," I say, breathless, as my hair falls down in a curtain around us.

"You lost the candy," he says, laughing.

"You did, too. So, I win."

I lower myself down to kiss him, and denim rubs against denim where our hips are touching in all the right places. I shift my weight, I can't help it, and Edward lets out this small groan as his eyes flutter shut, then open again. His breath comes warm and fast, as his hands grip mine tighter, and his thighs push him back up into me. It feels good, and my heart is racing because this is _so_ not the place to do this, but he's always the one making me weak, and seeing the barely-controlled, frantic look in his eyes makes me feel powerful. It makes me wonder what kind of noises he'll make in the dark, when it's just the two of us tangled up together on a soft bed, wrapped in soft sheets, on some warm, endless night.

Because time and privacy are both things we don't have a lot of at the moment, I rotate my hips in one small figure eight, and memorize the way my name sounds in his breathy voice, how his eyes are green as the grass he's laying on, and the way they watch me, like I'm the thing he wants most in this world.

I lower my head to give him a soft, slow kiss, and whisper in his ear, "You should see the way you look right now."

He presses his lips to my neck as he pushes us upright, and wraps his arms around me once we're in a more respectable position. His fingers memorize the waves in my hair, and his chest gets familiar with the feel of mine as he holds me, so tight. His lips help my lips find the rhythm they're used to, and our mouths melt together, all wet, and warm, and chocolaty.

As his hand slowly traces the path of my spine, and I lose myself in a world full of _him_, I finally realize how it feels to be in this bubble with Edward. Because when he and I are like this, there are no houses, and no hospitals. There are no sick or overbearing mothers, no lost fathers, no expectations, no coworkers, and no restraint. It's just the two of us, floating, and holding onto each other, and just being together.

Our words are quiet, and our kisses tender, until the shrill ring of Edward's cell phone pulls us apart.

That's the bad thing about bubbles. Eventually, they burst.


	13. Nebula

**Chapter Thirteen**

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_**Nebula**__: A cloud of dust and gas in space, usually illuminated by one or more stars. Nebulae represent the raw material the stars are made out of. _

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_

"I think maybe one of the cords is loose or something," Dad says as he crouches down on the floor, trying to squeeze his arm behind the shelf that my cable box sits on. "I'll just tighten a few of 'em, and that'll probably fix it right up."

"Okay." I sink back into the sofa as Dad tinkers with my television, which doesn't have anything wrong with it. He swears he saw a line across the screen, but I think he just wants to _do_ something, to have some use here. He still doesn't believe that I take a real interest in his life, and that having a conversation with him isn't the worst punishment in the world. It's probably a holdover from my preteen days, when I made him drop me off three blocks away from school every morning and wouldn't let him kiss me goodbye.

The hems of his dress pants ride up as he moves, and I smile when I see that he's wearing white athletic socks with his loafers. Dad never did know how to dress when his choices didn't involve a uniform, flannel, or denim. I wonder if Mom packed his suitcase before he left yesterday morning, and if she's pacing the floor waiting for him to return home tonight. She's never liked him coming to this yearly conference here in Seattle. That he's stopped off to see me before coming home, if she even knows that he's here, must be eating away at her.

"How's that?" Dad turns around, looking hopeful. His hair is a mess, and his tie's adorably askew.

I look at the TV, seeing that the imaginary line is still imaginary. "Looks great! Thanks, Dad."

"No problem, Bells," he says, smiling the smile that reminds me of years ago, when he used to push me on playground swings, and brush the dirt off my knees when I fell.

"You want a beer?"

"Sure. Just half of one. I'm driving." Always the cop, he tentatively sits on the edge of the sofa, looking uncomfortable. He tends to be that way outside the confines of Clallam County.

"Here," I say, leaning forward to hand him the bottle.

We sit in silence for a minute or two, and as I watch him rub the back of his neck, and fidget with the cuffs of his sleeves, I wonder how it's going to come this time. The obligatory 'love your mother, call your mother, she's not as bad as you think she is' speech. As sure as my dad's going to swirl his bottle before he takes his first sip, he's going to make a case for the finer attributes of Renee Higginbotham Swan. The only mysterious part of this ritual is the approach.

Dad picks up the bottle and swirls, then sips, and the countdown begins.

He sighs, and then something on the floor by the TV catches his eye. When he reaches over to pick it up, I can feel my heartbeat racing behind my eyes, and pounding in my throat. Oh, God. Oh, _God_. I recognize the telltale white border right away, and regret ever bringing out that stupid old Polaroid to take pictures of me and Edward in the park the other day.

Dad eyebrows crease as he holds the picture, tapping the corner with the tip of his finger. I don't like him having it, holding it, looking at it with his discerning cop eyes. I feel like he's going to find some flaw, something I can't see, and I have to clasp my hands together to keep myself from reaching out to grab it from him.

"What's this boy's name?" Dad asks, turning the picture in my direction. It's just me and Edward, smiling at the camera underneath our favorite tree. Nothing intimate, but it's more than I'm comfortable with my father seeing at this point. "Is he the one you and Emmett were talking about on the porch the other day?"

"Yes, that's him. His name is Edward." I want to mention that Edward's not a _boy_, but the defensive edge in my voice tells me that's probably not a good idea now.

"Are you and Edward..."

"Dating?" Please, oh,_ please_ let that be what he's asking me about. "Yes."

"He's good to you?" His eyebrows knit together. He doesn't like asking me this, I can tell. It's the typical 'Dad' question; the one he has to ask to make sure I don't get caught up with the wrong kind of person, and won't show up on his doorstep one day having eloped with some guy covered in tats who rides a motorcycle and calls everyone 'dude'.

"He's great to me," I reply, hoping to ease some of his worry.

"Things are going okay between you two?"

I take a deep breath, trying to break up the tightness in my chest, because it's a tough question to answer. Edward and I are fine, it's all the other parts of our life that aren't. But I don't want Dad to worry about me, or second-guess my choices. So, I don't tell him about the little emergencies that pull Edward away from me all the time; lit fires that he has to monitor constantly to make sure they don't blaze out of control. I don't tell him how helpless I feel when Edward pulls away from a kiss that's turning into something more to answer a phone call about an apartment, or a nurse, or to catch one of the many balls that are up in the air for him right now. I don't tell him about my selfishness; about the way my heart sinks when life drags Edward away from me, and how it gets harder and harder to accept each time he leaves me to take care of things he can't ignore.

"Bells?" Dad says, setting his bottle on the table. "Is everything all right?"

I swallow, and nod. "Yeah. Everything's great."

I don't think he believes me, but he's not gonna push.

"You both look happy."

Hearing this makes a small wave of giddiness push through me; not necessarily because Dad thinks _I_ look happy, because I know I am. It's that he can see it on Edward even without dimension. Looking at our smiling faces beaming back at me from that piece of paper, I know I'd let life burst our bubble a million times over as long as I ended up outside of it with Edward.

Dad grins, then puts the picture down on the end table. "Your mother and I have some pictures like this."

I cringe, because I don't like being compared to my mother in any way, shape, or form. Besides, if they were once happy like this, then-

"We do! Here, look," he laughs, digging into his back pocket to pull out his wallet, flipping it open to the worn plastic photo holder in the middle.

Curiosity pulls me onto my feet, and sets me down next to my father. I tuck myself under his arm like I always do, and he hands me the picture.

It's small, and worn around the edges. The photo has ripped off of the bottom right corner, leaving a small white triangle of paper that's faded over the years. Dad's arm is draped around Mom's shoulder, pulling her next to him, so tight. His shaggy hair and baby face are adorable, and Mom's smile is so bright and brilliant that the camera probably didn't even need a flash.

It's a smile that makes my stomach twist, because I realize that I've seen it more in pictures than I have in real life.

"When was this?" I ask, resting my cheek on his chest. His shirt smells like coffee, and pine needles, and the inside of his truck.

"Right after we found out we were going to have you."

"Like, around the time, or-"

"Two minutes, give or take. It took me a while to find my camera." His fingers clasp the edge opposite the one I'm holding, and I can hear the memories in his voice. "We were young and stupid, but we were so happy."

That the thought of having me put this look on my mother's face makes me smile despite myself. It lasts for a few seconds, before some bittersweet sadness sweeps through me and pulls it down.

"You're not happy now?"

"We are," Dad says, sliding the tip of his finger around my mother's face. "Twenty-five years changes people, Bells. Those changes either push you apart, or bring you together. If you stay together, well...you have to count on times like these to be enough to carry you through."

"Do they?"

"They have so far, and believe me, there are days when we need 'em. Sometimes I get so angry that I wanna leave, and I'm sure your mother does, too. She did leave, once."

I sit up and turn around to look at him, completely shocked. "_What_?"

Dad nods, his eyes sober.

"Where did she go?" I'm so surprised by this revelation that I don't even know what questions to ask, but the thing about Chief Swan is, he never lets information slip. There's a reason he's telling me now, here, like this.

"California." That makes sense. My grandparents live there.

"Why?" If I had to peg the parent I thought would be most likely to bail, it'd be my dad, hands down. I can't believe my mom would ever leave him.

"Forever is scary when you're eighteen, Bells. You get in your mind that you want one thing, and when you finally get it, it's not as perfect as you thought it'd be. Fairy tales work in books, but marriage is _hard._"

"I know." I wonder where he got the idea that I thought it would be easy? "How long was she gone?"

"About a month. Your Nan and Pop got in her ear; you know how flaky they are. They encouraged her to get married because it felt good, and then once things got difficult, they told her to find something that felt good again. They wanted her to just...do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted to do it. Goddamn hippies," he says, shaking his head.

My father has always barely tolerated my mother's free-spirited parents, but I've never heard such vitriol in his voice before.

"I can't picture Mom ever being anything like Nan."

Dad laughs, and pats my shoulder. "Oh, she had a wild streak in her, believe me. It was one of the things that made me fall in love with her. I never thought she'd run, though."

"What'd you do when she did?"

"Well," he says, crossing his legs, "I went after her. I waited for the longest damn week of my life, then I hopped in my car and went down to get her." I look up at him, and he's grinning in the way people only can when heartbreaking situations worked out in their favor. "She was confused, and I came back alone."

"Dad-"

"It took her two weeks to call me and ask me to come back to pick her up, and I think that's the only time in my life I ever broke the speed limit," he laughs.

"I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Dad kisses my forehead. "It was just one month out of how many over the years, but sometimes I think she's still trying to make it up to me. I'll tell you what, though. Crazy as she makes me, that woman sets my heart flying like a bat out of hell when she walks into a room. And when I look at her, I still see this girl," he says, pointing at the picture.

"She looks like someone I'd like to know."

"You _can_. She's still around."

"Yeah, okay," I say, folding my arms across my chest.

Dad sighs and sits up, bringing me with him. "Bells, I love you. You're my only daughter, and I'd move a mountain for you if I had to. I understand where you're coming from, believe me. But sometimes I think that woman could hand you a puppy with a million-dollar check strapped to its ass, and you'd still manage to find something wrong with it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask indignantly, yanking myself out from under his arm. I'm standing up before he grasps my wrist, and turns me around to face him.

"Please sit." The tone of his voice tells me that it's not really a request, and even though he's in _my_ house, I listen. But I don't want to sit next to him, so I take a seat on the coffee table while Dad shakes his head and sighs.

"I'm not saying that you're wrong, Bells," he mutters, taking my hands in his as he moves forward, sitting on the edge of the sofa. "I just want you to understand that even though the delivery is horrible, her intentions do matter."

Everyone's always trying to convince me of my mother's intentions. How can her intentions be good when they make me feel so beaten down? Exhausted, frustrated tears make my eyes blurry. I'm so _tired _of fighting.

"I do understand, Dad." My voice is shaking. "She wants me to be just like her."

He smiles this sad smile that makes me think he's tired of fighting, too, and then swipes a tear away from my chin with his thumb.

"That's where you're wrong, kiddo," he says, cupping my cheek with his hand. "She sees a lot of herself in you, but what she doesn't see is how you're different. This isn't really about Jake, or a dime-a-dozen job. She doesn't want you to have your own California; some dumb thing you did that you're still trying to make up for twenty-five years later. The last thing she wants, Bella, is for you to be like her."

I turn my head to the side, because there's so much to think about, and I can't process it all when he's sitting in front of me making the case for his wife. He made a great argument, and part of me feels like I'm on a used car lot, on the verge of signing papers for a lemon.

"You've been working on that one for a while, haven't you?"

Dad sighs, shakes his head, and then leans over to kiss my cheek. "Never change, Bella."

There's something very comforting about knowing it'd be okay with him if I didn't, and the acceptance makes his words stick with me.

They're constantly on my mind after Dad walks out my front door, and I dream about them once my eyes close. The following morning, they're all I can think about as I respond to emails and drift through the work day, wondering if maybe I'm not as right as I thought I was. I understand where Dad was coming from, and if I hadn't spent the last few months trying to get Mom to see where I've been coming from, I might buy what he's trying to sell me. I suppose it makes sense that my mom might think I'm making the same mistakes she did, but all I've done is try to make her see why I've been doing what I'm doing.

And maybe her intentions are honest and good, but how many times can I tell her that the two of us are not the same? That I'm not the person she thinks I am? That I'm not making the mistakes she thinks I'm making?

I roll our situation over and over in my head until I just can't focus on it anymore. At the end of the day, I'm exhausted and tired of thinking, which is proof that my brain has excellent timing.

It forgets about Mike and what he might know, and Mom and what she thinks she knows, and Dad and what he wanted me to know. It forgets about everything that isn't me, and Edward, and his skin on mine, and his lips on mine. It forgets about anything that isn't here, on my sofa, where I'm on Edward's lap facing him, straddling his thighs.

"These buttons are amazing," he says, his index finger circling the small dots of mother-of-pearl that are keeping my shirt closed.

"It's tough to find good buttons nowadays." I twist his coppery hair between my fingers, and the drunk-happy look on his face makes me feel both in control, and out of it.

"Such fine craftsmanship." He grins at me through kiss-swollen lips, and my kiss-swollen lips grin back.

"_So_ fine," I say, before pressing small kisses against his cheek, and his chin, and that spot below his ear. When I pull away, Edward gently tugs on a button, testing its will to stay closed.

"This one has a pretty important job." Edward's fingertip traces the edge of the buttonhole at the center of my chest, where my heart's beating a bass line beneath it.

"You should make sure it works properly." My words come out all breathy, like I'm trying to sound sexy. I'm not, but _god _do I _feel_ sexy when he looks at me with those heavy green eyes, and when his tongue drags across his bottom lip that tastes like peppermint and belongs to me.

"I should," he says, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me closer to him. He smells like laundry detergent, and starch, and the yellow file folders that circulate through the office. All I want to do is breathe him, and kiss him, and let his body make mine curl up, and stretch out, and feel things it's never felt before. "I'll start here."

With one hand on the small of my back, he uses the other to undo my shirt's bottom button. When I reach for his collar, he playfully pushes me away, and tells me I'll get my turn later.

"This one looks good." He trails his hand up to the next in line, and undoes that button with a flick of his fingers. "This one, too..." His voice is a little ragged, and I like the way his chest rises and falls faster now, like there's too much anticipation, and not enough air.

Who cares about_ buttons_, Edward? Just rip them off and put your hands on me.

"Go faster, please," I say, in a quiet kind of plea. And because he's _Edward_, he just bites his lip, grins, and does the exact opposite.

Slowly, so _slowly_, he drags his fingers up the front of my shirt, hidden beneath the placket, where the backs of his nails tickle my skin. My stomach muscles tighten, bending me forward, wanting me to be closer to him, and I have to will my arms to behave. They ache to reach up and help him hurry the job along. Instead, I plant my hands on the back of the sofa—one above each of his shoulders—and hold myself over him.

I like the way looking at me makes his eyes so intense and focused, and how I tremble when he touches me; I know he can feel it. He likes the way my hair brushes against his arms when I lean down to drag my lips across his neck, and how my hips shift when I move closer to him; he knows I can feel it. We like driving each other crazy.

"So impatient," he whispers into my ear, his lips so warm and soft. Warm and soft, and I want to feel them anywhere. _Everywhere. _"It'll be worth the wait."

I answer him with a kiss that should make him pick up speed, but the thing about Edward is that he always savors the good things. Sometimes, when he kisses me, it seems like he thinks it might be the last time he'll get the chance. And when his lips linger longer than they normally would, or his arms hold me tighter than he thinks that they should, I remember that I've fallen for a man who's spent most of his life watching everything that he loves slip through his fingers.

It's those moments, like this one, when I realize that leaning back and relaxing while he moves at his own pace is the most precious gift. Because this man, with his beautiful heart, and nimble hands that know just how to move me, has never been given enough _time_.

So, I'm not exactly surprised by the mischievous smile that warms me up when I sit back on Edward's knees and give him the room he needs to work.

By the time he wordlessly unfastens my collar, my heart is beating like I just ran a marathon, and my lungs are screaming with the effort it takes to harness my breathing. I don't know if nerves or desire are making my skin buzz, setting it on fire. I suppose it doesn't matter; I can't control either one.

Edward's fingertips glide across my collarbone, oh _god_, so light, and gently push my shirt off of my left shoulder, then slide along the silky strap of my bra that feels heavy as armor. I'm scared he'll know I picked this one out for him, that I've been thinking about this, and planning for it, and dressing for it, too. I want him to tell me it's pretty, and that he likes it. Please let him like it. _Please._ He's licking his lips. That's good, it must be good.

When he pauses at the curve of the scallop-edged cup, I run the tip of my finger down the back of his hand to let him know it's okay for him to touch me. I want him to touch me. I_ need_ it, I'll die if he doesn't.

He moves his hand down, and his palm is warm through black lace as his breath kisses my skin, and his thumb grazes the swell of my breast.

I run my hands through his hair, because I need them to do something so that they'll stop shaking. I'm _so_ nervous. Can he see it? Can he feel my heart trying to beat out of my chest?

He kisses the inside of my wrist before his fingers curl around the top of the cup of my bra, and he slowly pulls it down, down, down, and I want him to see me but I'm scared he won't like what he sees, and I want him to touch me, but I know it'll ruin me for anyone else.

When his hand stops, my breathing stops, and everything is still.

Then, this wonderful man who's got me in the palm of his hand, reaches out and touches my face. And I know, I _know _that fire hot look in his eyes isn't because he's touching my _breast_, it's because he's touching _my_ breast.

He traces slow circles with the tips of his fingers, which feel nice, and the backs of his fingers, which feel nicer. Then his mouth follows, with its warm lips and wet tongue, and that feels the nicest. His quick shallow breaths cool my skin in the wake of his mouth, and each time he finds a new place to lick, or suck, or touch, I'm electric.

"It's my turn," I breathe, as my fingers fumble and grab at his starchy cotton shirt to untuck it. I make quick work of the buttons, because I don't have anywhere near Edward's patience; I just want my hands on every inch of his body that they can reach.

My fingers aren't working the way that they should, and my lips just need to be _somewhere_ on him, so I press them against his neck, just below the place where his stubble ends. I feel his heartbeat pound, pound, pounding against my lips, but that's not the only thing pound, pound, pounding.

"Fuck," Edward says.

_Fuck._

"Ignore it." My palm glides over his stomach, such smooth skin over a hard body. "They'll go away." I will_ kill _this person if they don't go away.

"Bella, open the damn door!"

"Oh, God, it's Emmett."

"Shit," Edward says. We're looking at each other with wide eyes, like a couple of deer in the headlights. Like we've got all the time in the world.

My brother pounds again, and we spring into action; untangling limbs, and clothes. This teenage rush pulses through me as I scramble to put on, and tuck in, and unwrinkle.

Edward straightens his collar, I smooth out my skirt, and we're both grinning, and rushed, and dopey. It's the best.

"Fix your belt," I say as I walk toward the banging.

"The back of your skirt!" I reach behind me to pull it down, and I see Edward laughing. That would've been embarrassing. And bad. Very bad.

"Hey," I say as I open the door. I sound breathless, and I hope Emmett doesn't notice. I'm pretty sure does.

"Hey." He's got that suspicious look in his eye, and he leans against the door frame as he peers inside my apartment. "What's going on?"

"Not much, just hanging out." If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I just heard Edward laugh.

"You got company here?"

"Uh, yeah. Edward's in there," I say, motioning toward the living room.

Emmett's eyebrows knit together as he steps inside, and he stretches his neck out a little bit to get a better view. I lean to the side to try to block him, which is idiotic, because I'm over a foot shorter than he is.

"Did you forget I was coming over today?"

"No," I lie. That must've been something I'd forgotten while I'd been trying to forget about everything else. Now that he mentions it, I vaguely recall being invited out to dinner with him and Rose tonight.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" I'm pretty sure he's going to come in whether I invite him or not.

"Yeah, sorry," I say, moving to the side. He looks like he wants to make a beeline for the living room, but his stomach guides him straight to the kitchen instead.

Edward walks in while Emmett's digging around in the refrigerator, and he slowly reaches over and gently tugs on something that's dangling from my sleeve. He tugs on _his tie_, that's dangling from _my sleeve_. Oh, no.

I tuck my arm against my side for some reason, as if Emmett will somehow unsee the evidence of what we'd been doing, if he'd even seen it in the first place. If he had, he'd say something, I'm sure of it. Even though I'm old enough to drive, and vote, and drink, and have a mortgage, he'll never stop being my big brother.

Just as Edward tucks his tie into his pocket, Emmett turns around, holding a bottle of mustard.

"Emmett, you remember Edward."

"Yeah. Hey." Emmett reaches his free hand out to shake Edward's.

"Hey."

The bad thing is that my brother knows something's up. The good thing is that he no longer looks like he wants to pound Edward into the ground. I'll take my breaks where I can get them. He seems to be preoccupied with what's in my refrigerator, anyway.

"What's this?" Emmett asks, as he peels the top off of one of the Tupperware containers that's stacked on the second shelf from the top. "Aw hell, pot roast?"

He's already reaching toward the silverware drawer in the time it takes for me to pull the container out of his grip.

"Not that." I push the top back on the container. "You can have anything but what's on that shelf."

Emmett rolls his eyes before foraging elsewhere, and Edward gives me a shy, tender smile. I know that pot roast is his favorite. He knows all of that is for him.

"I guess this will have to do," Emmett says, reaching into a bag of cold cuts and popping one into his huge mouth.

"Aren't we supposed to go out to dinner?"

"Yeah, but we won't eat for at least another hour. I'm growing, I need my strength. You comin' Edward?"

_Ugh_.

Edward just smiles and shakes his head. "No, I can't."

Emmett probably can't see the way his smile fell, or how he swallowed before he answered. Emmett can't see the insecurity in his eyes.

"Where's Rose?" I ask, trying to steer this conversation in a different direction.

"She's at the restaurant, meeting with a realtor." He reaches into the cupboard behind him, grabs a glass, and then fills it with tap water. "You know she's wanted to get into flipping for a while, and her dad gave us some money as a wedding present. We were in town to see the planner, and there was this house she wanted to see. The owners are desperate to get rid of it. My girl's just swooping in like a vulture," he says, shoulders square and proud.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and hope that I'm dreaming. I'm dreaming, right? I have to be dreaming, because my brother did not just open his ginormous pie hole and say the one thing that could ruin the last few perfect hours.

"They say real estate is all about timing."

I'm not dreaming, because there's Edward with his steady voice, and his cool, calm composure. He's got his head held high, and a smile on his face.

"So true," Em says, nodding. "You don't even know."

I want to shake him and scream, '_he does, you jackass, he does,' _but the words don't come. Everything inside me is chilled, frozen, waiting for something to fall and break me into a million pieces.

"I better get going," Edward says, grazing his fingers along the inside of my arm; a soft touch that might as well be two tons of steel.

"What?" I feel panic rise up. "No, no don't go."

"It was good to see you, Emmett. Bella." He kisses my forehead, and is gone before I can even walk him to the door.

"Bye, man," Emmett calls. He's oblivious to anything but the lunch meat he's stuffing his face with.

"Shit," I mutter, pushing myself away from the counter. As I shove past Emmett, I swat at his shoulder. It wasn't his fault, but I'm frustrated and I can't help it. "Why do you have such a big mouth?"

"What? What'd I say?"

I open the door and hold up my hand to stop him from following me. "Just...just give me a minute, okay? Stay here."

Edward's quick, because in the five seconds that have passed since he walked out, he's already at the bottom of the stairs.

"Edward, wait!"

He stops, but doesn't turn around, and I fixate on the wrinkles on the back of his shirt as I make my way down to him. When I put my hand on his shoulder, the tension melts from his muscles a little.

"I'm supposed to be over at Tanya's soon."

"Can't you just come up for a few more minutes?" I don't want him to leave, not like this.

He slowly turns around, and looks down at the concrete steps we're standing on. He's ashamed, I can tell, and even though I understand _why_, I want to shake it out of him. I want to make him see that he should never feel this way around me. Ever.

"Emmett didn't mean what he was saying in there. He doesn't think sometimes, and if he knew, he never would've-"

"Bella," Edward says, reaching out to link his fingers with mine. He gives my arm a little shake that makes me feel less stiff, and the smallest hint of that crooked smile I love loosens me up even more. "It's okay. I just think it's better if I go."

Better for who?

"Okay." I swallow my argument down deep, and feel his fingers slide out from between mine before he walks to his car without speaking another word, or giving me a kiss goodbye. I watch him drive away, his tail lights angry red in the setting sun, and because I understand him so well, I _know_.

He's sitting behind the wheel of a car, but he's running away.

I trudge back upstairs, and I'm half-expecting to open the door right into Emmett, snoop that he is, but I'm surprised to see him sitting on the couch. I plop down next to him, on the spot I'd been with Edward only minutes before. Those were such great minutes; I'd do anything to get them back.

"Wanna tell me what that was all about?"

I shouldn't tell him, I know this. But there's this small light of hope somewhere inside of me that Edward, Emmett, and I will be in the same room together again someday, and I want to help my brother avoid the land mines he stepped on today.

"Well," I say, crossing my arms. "I think you bragging about your vulture-like wife-to-be hit a little too close to home for him."

"Is he a flipper or something?"

"No," I sigh, fighting back frustration. My brother can be so dense sometimes. "He had to sell his house to avoid foreclosure."

"Oh, shit." He rests his elbows on his knees before he stands up, and I grab his arm, because I know him, and I know what he's doing. "He's already gone, Em."

"He probably thinks I'm a huge asshole now," he sighs, sinking down next to me.

"Better he find out sooner than later," I tease, bumping his shoulder. I'm giving my brother a hard time, but in reality, I think he and Edward would really like each other if they spent some time together. I've never wanted anyone to know Emmett like I want Edward to know him. And I want Emmett to know Edward, too.

"Seriously, Bella." He really_ is_ serious.

"Seriously, Em. He doesn't think that. He's just having a rough time right now. He's got to be out of the house in two weeks, and…there are a lot of things still up in the air."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" My brother with the big mouth, and even bigger heart.

"No. He's not really receptive to help," I sigh. "It's pretty maddening."

Emmett lets out this small puff of a laugh, and rubs his palms together. "Pride's a real pain in the ass, isn't it?"

"You have no idea."

"I do, actually." His fingertips drum across the top of the end table next to him, and he purses his lips together. I know, from years of looking at it, that this is Emmett's thinking face. "Remember when I got laid off a couple of years ago, before I got my job at the Outfitters?"

"Yeah."

He looks down at his lap for a second, then over to me. "Rosie…she paid my rent for a couple of months."

"She did?"

"Yep. I wanted to die."

"Why?" I ask. My voice loud. "She just did it because she loved you, and-"

"It was fucking embarrassing, Bella." Emmett's voice is louder.

"What is it about people who would rather drown than ask for a life preserver?"

"I don't know." A small chime sounds from Emmett's front pocket, and he pulls out his phone with a smile. "Still wanna come to dinner?"

"Nah." I don't think I'd be very good company tonight. "You go ahead."

"All right," he says, standing. He grasps my hands to pull me up, and he laughs when he looks at my shirt. "Make sure you button up right the next time you get caught doing nothing."

"Oh, God." My face burns as I look down at the hem of my shirt, uneven from the button I skipped, fourth from the bottom.

He winks. "I'll see you soon?"

"Yep."

I walk him to the door, and he kisses me on the forehead before he walks out. He's halfway down the steps when he turns, his hands gripping the railing. "Hey, if Edward needs some help moving...let him know I'm available."

I smile. "I will."

"I'm serious," he says.

"So am I."

"Oh, and B?"

"Yeah?"

"If you were the one drowning, would you tell him?"

I look down, and study the contrast of my red toenails against the backdrop of the cement porch. "That's different."

His smile makes his eyes crinkle around the corners. "It always is." He taps the railing. "I love you, Bells."

I swallow, and nod. "I love you, too."

I watch my brother trot down the stairs, then get into his truck to go meet Rose. And I might be by myself, but I'm not alone. I'm left standing with my constant companion: the hypocrite.

Later, when the sun's gone down and I'm sitting under the dim light of a lamp in my living room, I sink into my chair and curl up under a soft blanket. Some sitcom that I'm not really paying attention to is on in the background, and the artificial laugh track seems to be mocking the worry on my mind.

I'm so lost in thoughts of Edward and the way he looked before he left that I'm startled when the phone rings, and I can't help but smile at the number that pops up on the caller ID.

"I didn't think I'd be hearing from you tonight." I twist a piece of my blanket's fringe around my finger to distract me from the momentary silence on the other end of the line.

"If I asked you to do something for me, would you do it?" Edward sounds so unsure, even though deep, deep down, he has to know that outside of breaking the law, I'd do anything for him.

"Does it involve me dropping off a bundle of cash to an undisclosed location?"

He laughs lightly, and it puts me at ease. "Not this time."

"Bummer. In that case…"

"Bella, please." He's not in the mood for jokes.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Do you have a pen and paper?"

I write as he gives me a street address, along with directions on how to find it. He asks me to meet him there in thirty minutes, and tells me not to knock; he'll be waiting for me to arrive.

Half an hour later, I slowly come to a stop outside of a huge Craftsman house set thirty yards or so off the street. A few lighted windows on the bottom level break up the darkness surrounding the house, but the brightest spot is in the middle of the porch, where a familiar silhouette is leaning against the front door's frame.

It's an effort to move along the gray stone walkway at a normal pace. Whenever I see Edward, I'm struck with this desire to run to him, because it always feels like any distance between us is too far, and the precious seconds spent on silly things like walking is time wasted.

"Nice tiara," I say, smiling as I push off of the top step. I want to reach up and run my fingers through his hair, but everything going on up there is too cute to mess with.

He laughs, ducking his head to pull the tiara off. "We were having a tea party." He tentatively reaches over and threads his fingers through mine, and I squeeze his hand as we step over the threshold.

We walk into a foyer that's spotless; all beige walls and shiny wood floors, and furniture that looks like it costs more than my yearly salary. Edward tells me to take my shoes off, and then sets them down on a wooden bench by the front door.

"Who's _we_?"

"_We_ would be _me_," Edward says, pressing his hand to his chest, "Abby, who's five, and upstairs sleeping, and Countess Vanessa von Bearington here." He reaches over to the sideboard and picks up this fluffy stuffed bear that's wearing a pleated pink dress and black patent-leather shoes.

"Vanessa von Bearington?" I can't help but smile as I say it.

"I think that's it," he whispers, covering the bear's ears. "I always forget." God, he's cute. He's so damn _cute _here in his element, where there's no computer, and no worry, and the bills are delivered in someone else's name.

"Is it okay that I'm here?" I whisper.

"Yes," Edward whispers back, smiling as he puts the bear back down and places the tiara on its head. "I asked Tanya if she minded, and she said she didn't. I figured it'd be best to wait until the kids went bed, since they don't know you, and…"

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't intruding, or-"

"Tanya trusts my judgment, Bella. She wouldn't leave her children with me if she didn't."

"I know." I hadn't meant for it to sound like I was questioning his decision-making capability.

I feel kind of awkward standing here in the middle of a stranger's house, even though Edward's right next to me. So, I ask a question to break the tension, and start with the most obvious one. "How did you get into this?"

"Babysitting?"

"Yeah."

"Feel like helping me clean up Abbyville while we talk?" he asks, motioning toward the living room. There's a mess of pillows and blankets strewn across the floor, forming a tent city right in the middle of Tanya's fine living room.

"Sure," I say, laughing as I follow him through a large, ceiling-high archway.

"I told you I went to high school with Tanya," he says, picking a large pink blanket up off of the floor. He hands me one side, while he takes the other. We shake it out, and walk toward each other to gather the edges, folding the blanket in half one, two, three times. We fold, and gather. Fold, and gather. "She was a couple years ahead of me. Her mom was one of the people who brought over casseroles after my dad..."

I know it's hard for him to tell me this by the way his eyebrows knit together as he talks.

"We kept in touch while we were in college. She relocated to Alaska shortly after she got married, and moved back here a couple of years ago. A lot of our friends had spread out across the country, so she looked me up."

I pick up another blanket, hand him two edges, and we begin again.

"Her husband and I would hang out and watch football, and when I was over here, I'd entertain the kids. I taught Abby to play soccer, and Ben's always liked me for some reason. When she went back to work, Tanya didn't want to leave the kids with just anyone. A few friends stepped up to help. She asked me one night in a pinch, and I just sort of fell into it. I've been here a lot, especially since she moved from Tacoma."

"You like it?"

"It's an unconventional thing for a guy to do, I suppose. I suck at changing diapers, and I'm the worst bedtime storyteller. But yeah. I forget about my problems here." When we start to fold the very last blanket, arms stretched wide, he kisses me as he takes the edges of it from between my fingers. "And just between you and me," he says, draping the soft fleece over his arm as he leans in close to my ear, "I really like playing with Matchbox cars."

He looks sixteen again, with his wide grin and bright eyes.

"I won't tell," I say, kissing his cheek.

He walks to the corner and picks up the coffee table, then carries it back to the middle of the room where it belongs.

"Would you get the remotes?" he asks, motioning toward the built-in bookcases that take up the entire right wall.

"Sure." There are so many pictures lining the shelves that I can't resist peeking at them as I walk by. I try to be discreet about it, but I find my gaze dragging slowly from portrait to portrait, trying to figure out which one of these people, if any, are Tanya.

When I finally reach the shelf that the remotes sit on, there's no doubt that this whole retrieval gig is a set-up.

There's a cluster of photos on the shelf that's at my eye level. The people are all in a group, but I can pick Edward out by his height, and when I look closer, I see the slightly sad and distant look in his eyes. I pick up one picture, and slide my finger across his baby face. I wish there were some way I could reach through glass, and paper, and time to take his pain away.

Edward walks up behind me and wraps his arms around my sides, resting his chin on my shoulder.

"This is Tanya," he says, pointing to a strawberry-blonde girl wearing a red shirt. And even though he's right _here_, his chest pressed against my back, and his breath in my ear, a twinge of insecurity pulls at me, making me want to put the picture back, face down.

"She's pretty." She's beautiful, really, with her long, wavy hair, and bright, friendly eyes. Her smile is huge as she stands in the middle of a circle of her friends.

"Yeah, I guess she is. I don't know…I like brunettes."

Oh, he's slick. He's so slick, and he knows it. He kisses my cheek, and picks up the picture that was next to the one I'm holding in my hands, and when he's finished explaining that one to me, he picks up another. There are so many faces; some the same from picture to picture, and others are different. He tells me their names, and anecdotes about how they were when he knew them, and what's happened to them since.

It's nice to hear him talk about good memories. Good memories take the worry from his eyes, and make his smile stay a little bit longer. I want to hear good memories forever.

When the last picture is back in its place, I turn to face him, taking his hands in mine. "Why are you doing this?"

"I've been thinking about what you said about sharing," he says, twisting his fingers around mine. "This is what I have to share right now. My life. _Me_."

It's a huge step; even bigger than the one we took together this afternoon, with our pounding hearts, and lips everywhere. It's _so_ big, this step we're taking in the middle of a stranger's living room.

"Edward, I didn't mean to sound preachy or holier-than-thou when I said that. I realize that I probably made it seem like I thought you were being ridiculous. I…I want you to know that I understand why you feel embarrassed when I invite you to dinner or offer to help. I just…I don't ever want you to feel that way around me. I wasn't trying to-"

"Bella," he says, brushing the backs of his fingers across my cheek. His smile makes me want to explain myself more often. "It's okay, I know what you were trying to do. I'm not always the most gracious recipient."

I laugh, because it's true. Then I tell him something that's even truer. "I'm not always the most gracious giver."

He wraps his arms around me, and they're so warm, and fluid, and perfect-feeling. I always long for his lips, but there's something about him holding me close like this, with my head tucked under his chin in that perfect space, that feels even better now.

He leans back against the couch behind him, spreading his legs to make space for me, and tucks his hands into my back pockets.

"I'm sorry about this afternoon," he says, then kisses my forehead. "I shouldn't have left like that, especially not after we..."

"Yeah," I say, my fingertip circling the button right below his collar. He smiles at the memory. "You're so confident one minute, and then the next you're just…retreating. It's hard to reconcile."

"I know I can make you _feel _good," he says, pressing his hands against my body. "Sometimes I'm less sure about the other things."

I smile, because he's so earnest, and so mine. "You make me feel good in lots of ways. But…"

"But," he breathes uncertainly.

"But..." I take a minute to figure out how to tell him what I'm feeling without hurting him. I swallow, and take a deep breath, letting my fingers linger on his chest. "You leave so often, and you need to, I get that. When you do it when you don't have to, well...it hurts."

"Shit," he says, pressing his forehead against mine. "I'm fucking this up."

"No." I reassure him with a kiss.

"Your brother must think I'm an asshole."

I laugh, and touch Edward's cheek. "He thinks _you_ think _he's_ an asshole."

"I don't, not at all. And I really didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with him."

"That's important to you?" I love that he hasn't just thought about the time he's spent with me; that he's thought about meeting and spending time with my family gives me a confidence that I haven't felt in him before.

"What, getting along with your family?"

"Yeah, you think about that?" I should probably tell him that Emmett is the very least of his worries when it comes to Swan DNA, but I figure we should probably take baby steps.

"Well...yeah," he says, shrugging. "I want you to get along with my mom, too."

"You do?" My smile is so big, I think I might sprain my cheeks.

"Yeah." His smile's big, too. "She really wants to meet you."

"She knows about me?" The only thing that dims the warm, bright light that feels like it's shining inside of me is that I can't tell him the same.

"She does," he says, trailing the tip of his finger down to the tip of my chin. "She keeps asking me when I'm going to bring you by to see her." He seems a bit hesitant as he says it, and I wonder if that hesitance is for me to meet her, or for her to meet me.

"Oh." I feel a little deflated. If he wanted me to go, he would've asked me by now. I try not to let the fact that he hasn't hurt too much.

"I was thinking maybe Saturday we could...if you're not busy..."

"Only if you want me to," I say softly, so I don't get my hopes up.

It takes him a few seconds to answer me. "I want you to." The right side of his lips curl up, and I kiss the edge of his smile.

"Okay."

I rest my head against his shoulder, and he squeezes me tightly.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"Emmett offered to help you pack, or move, or whatever you need help with. He's the world's best manual laborer; he doesn't complain, and he works for free."

Edward laughs, warm against my cheek.

I hope he'll say yes, that he'll accept with no hemming and hawing, but he doesn't. He hasn't even asked me over to his house yet, and with the clock winding down on the number of days he's got left there, I'm not sure he ever will. But I want him to let me in. I want him to let me in _so_ badly.

"Will you think about it?"

He runs his fingers through my hair, and then kisses my cheek. "I'll think about it."

Then a tiny, muffled wail crackles through the baby monitor that's on the end table, and I peel myself away from Edward.

"Shit. Stay here?"

He doesn't wait for my answer, he just tears up the stairs. And when he walks back into the room a few minutes later, I think I might die.

A tiny boy with an arm curled around Edward's neck, and chubby little legs that dangle against his stomach, snuggles up into Edward's chest. He's all strawberry-blonde curls, and fire truck pajamas, and puffy sleep-red cheeks that make my heart melt.

"This is Ben," Edward whispers, twisting his body so that I can see the baby's face. He's softly chewing on a green ring, and his eyes are tired and droopy. "He's teething."

I don't say anything, I just press the palm of my hand to the back of Ben's head, and sweep a lock of hair off his face with my thumb. Edward's grinning at me, but I can't look directly at him. He's bright as the sun, and if I make eye contact, I'll want to have a hundred of his green-eyed babies.

Oh, who am I kidding? I can't not look at him; it's the kind of moment that you cling to, that you want to keep, because they don't come around very often. It's the kind of moment that you have to pull yourself away from, so that nothing ruins it. The kind of moment you want to take a picture of, and carry around in your wallet.

"I should go," I say quietly. I want to stay, but I shouldn't. This isn't what he's here for, we both know that.

"Okay."

When we're out on the porch, his hand falls from mine after I wish him goodnight, and turn to go to my car.

"Bella," he says, in this loud whisper. I expect him to be smiling, or laughing, or doing something cute when I turn around, but he isn't. He's all somber seriousness. "It won't always be like this."

It could be the sweet look on his face, or the baby sleeping in his arms, but his words _sound _different than anything I've heard him say before. And maybe it's because of the tiniest glimmer of hope I hear in a voice that used to sound so defeated. I love that hope, and I want to believe in it, too.

So, I smile as I walk back to him. I press my lips against his. Then I lace our fingers together, and I keep that hope alive.

"I know."

"We'll watch a bad movie on a Saturday night just like ordinary people, and when it's over, we won't have to say goodbye. In the morning, we'll stay in bed and be lazy, because that's the only place we'll have to be."

He squeezes my hand, and the promise of it sends a thrill all the way down to my toes.

I can't wait to be ordinary.


	14. Circumpolar Star

**Chapter Fourteen**

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* * *

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_**Circumpolar Star: **__A star that never sets, but always stays above the horizon. _

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* * *

_

It's not as busy as I expected. Not as sickly, or depressing.

We walk through endless white hallways that are connected to more hallways that are endless and white. They smell like alcohol; a maze of wide passageways where life and death cross paths every second of every day. Yet, everything seems so _casual_. Nurses stand outside of doorways; some chatting with each other, laughing. Some flipping through charts that document lifetimes. All wearing cheery, colorful scrubs that pop out from the bland walls like fireworks.

This is one of the times when I acutely feel the difference between Edward's life and mine. There's a novelty about this place that makes me want to explore it, to see what goes on inside all of these whitewashed rooms. But Edward, he knows all too well what happens here. That's why his hand grips mine so tightly, and he walks two steps ahead, intent on our destination.

We take a left, and pass a metal cart that's taller than I am, stacked to the top with pink trays. This sick, sour smell emanates from them, hitting me in the back of my throat, and _ugh_, is that _breakfast_? Has Mrs. Cullen had to eat whatever makes this smell every day since she's been here? That poor, _poor_ woman.

I crane my neck toward the clatter and clang as an orderly removes a couple of trays to take them to their unlucky recipients.

"What are you looking at?" Edward's voice is tight, a little unnerved.

"I keep waiting for a couple of doctors to pop out of one of these doors in various states of undress," I tell him. He probably wouldn't like the honest answer, and at least with this I have a chance at making him smile.

He does. Sort of.

"This isn't _Grey's Anatomy_, Bella." He wants to laugh at my joke; I can tell by the way his dimple starts to show. I want to laugh at the fact that he even knows what _Grey's Anatomy_ is.

"I know," I say, smiling at him as we walk. "I just wasn't sure what to expect."

He slows to a stop in the middle of the hallway, and looks at me with his eyebrows all crinkled. "Have you...have you never been in a hospital before?"

"I mean, I've been to doctor's offices and those emergency care clinics they have in strip malls. I was pretty clumsy when I was a kid, and I wound up in the emergency room a few times, but all I really remember about that is Dr. Gerandy giving me a lollipop and a balloon when I left. Once I hit puberty, and gravity and I became friends, I haven't been back. The hospital in Forks is a _lot _smaller, though. Nothing like this."

"What, is it just one big room with a wall of hay separating the side where they treat the humans from the side where they treat the animals?" His sort-of smile turns into a full-blown one, dimple and all.

"No," I say, swatting his arm. "There's a barnyard out back for the animals."

Edward laughs. It's such a welcome sound in this sterile place, and it bounces off the walls as we start walking again. The more we move, the longer Edward's stride becomes, and the longer Edward's stride becomes, the faster we go. The faster we go, the more that beautiful smile fades. It fades until his lips press into a thin line, and his eyes become narrow and focused.

For someone who seemed hesitant to open up to me not too long ago, he sure is moving awfully fast.

"She had another small surgery on Wednesday, so her leg is stabilized, and her face has some scars, so she's not going to look like…you know, like you're probably expecting her to look. She's kind of self-conscious about it, so…"

He's so nervous he's fidgeting. His palm is a little sweaty against mine, and it makes my heart ache. As he pulls me around yet another corner, I begin to realize he might be moving so quickly toward his mother's room so that we get there before he talks himself into running away from it.

"Edward," I say, tugging on his arm as we gravitate to the right of the corridor and come to a stop. "If you're not ready for me to go in there, I don't have to."

We've come so far, but I'll stop right here if he needs me to.

"I can wait outside, or-"

"No," he says, his expression softening. "I want you to meet her."

"I'm not afraid of seeing her. And I promise I won't embarrass you." He holds both of my hands in his, and rubs the pads of his thumbs across my knuckles.

"I'm not worried about you embarrassing me. It's just…"

"I understand." I squeeze his fingers. "I'll go down to the cafeteria and try to locate the source of that smell coming from the trays back there," I say, trying not to let my disappointment seep through my voice. "You spend time with your mom, and I can come back another day."

This tiny smile plays at the corner of his mouth when he leans down to kiss me. "C'mon," he says, threading his fingers between mine as we start walking again.

A hallway over, we come to a stop in front of a large door that's halfway open. From where we stand, I can see the sun brightening the ugly, gray-speckled floor.

Edward knocks a few times before he pushes the door, and he squeezes my hand as we step inside.

"Mom?"

"Hi, sweetie," Mrs. Cullen says. Her voice is soft and welcoming, and her endearment for her son makes me grin.

I reach up to smooth my shirt, because oh, I just got so nervous all of a sudden. Edward's calmed down, but now I'm a little bit frantic. I'm scared she'll think my hair is too long, my clothes are too short, my personality is too much, and my appeal is too little.

But when I see her huge, beaming smile, I know none of that matters. Because I'm not here to see _my_ mother, I'm here to see Edward's. And if a few seconds is any indication, one is definitely nothing like the other.

The first things I notice are the long bars and rings that are encasing her leg; it looks a lot like scaffolding that stretches from her ankle to her thigh. There's a pulley holding it up off of the bed at an angle, and I can see the bandages and a few bruises through the metal. Her other leg seems to have fared better, although a brace or something makes the blanket that covers it lumpy.

There's a brace on her left wrist. I can see the end, where it wraps around her hand, popping out from the sleeve of her robe. It's impossible not to look at these things the first time you see her, but when she starts talking to Edward, her lilting voice moves my gaze to her face.

Her hair is a soft brown, twisted into a pretty knot near the crown of her head. She's got an elegant neck, the kind that diamond chokers are made for, and petite shoulders that somehow manage to look graceful even under the weight of her terry-cloth robe. Edward got his green eyes from his mother, and hers crinkle at the edges like his do, only the lines that surround them when she smiles are a little deeper. Her smile is infectious. Even the jagged, angry red scar that cuts across her porcelain skin from the corner of her lips to the beginning of her hairline above her ear can't make that smile any less brilliant.

And none of the other small, pink scars that mar her otherwise flawless complexion make her any less beautiful. She is _so _beautiful.

"You must be Bella," she says, reaching her seemingly uninjured right arm toward me. Her grip is firm, but her skin is very soft.

"It's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Cullen." My voice is shaky. Stupid voice.

"Please," she says, laughing. "Call me Esme."

"Okay." Edward squeezes my hand, and I feel a little less nervous, and a lot more grounded.

"You're all Edward can talk about, and he's said such wonderful things. I was beginning to think you didn't exist," she says, grinning at me. "But you're just as lovely as he said you were."

"Thank you." My cheeks are on fire. I look over at Edward, expecting him to reprimand his mother or look embarrassed, but he does neither. He just winks, and gives me that dopey-cute dimple grin. "Edward speaks so fondly of you."

Oh, words get back into my mouth, please. Get back into my mouth, and never come out again. I'm talking to Edward's mother like she's some crazy great-aunt who gives people mortifyingly bad knitted gifts for Christmas. '_Edward speaks so fondly of you'_? Who even says 'fondly' anymore? I'm not eighty! God help me. God, please help me.

"What I mean is," I say, my voice steady, "that Edward has told me so much about you." There, that's better. It's not 'fondly', at least. "Nice things." Shut _up_, Bella.

Esme smiles. "Can I offer you something to drink? Bottled water? Chicken broth?" She pulls the plastic lid off of a small white bowl, and _ugh_, there's that smell. My stomach turns.

"Broth is a little too rich for me," I say, crinkling my nose.

"I'm sorry." She looks a little disgusted herself. "It was bad form for me try to pawn this off on you, even as a joke. This should be banished to a nuclear waste pit, where it belongs." Esme has a sense of humor that I hadn't been expecting at all. "Come," she says, motioning us forward. "Sit."

Two chairs are lined up along the wall on the right side of her bed. Edward takes the one furthest from her, and I take the one that's closer. He sidles up to me so that our arms are touching, and his warm skin on mine eases my nerves.

"So," Esme says, "you two are off to an early start. Do you have big plans for the day?"

"Oh, well, my brother's coming into town later this morning, and we're-"

"We're meeting him for lunch," Edward interrupts. "We have some errands to run beforehand."

Edward looks over at me before smiling at his mother. I narrow my eyes at him, because why is he hiding? He just nods in return. If Esme's noticed our exchange, she doesn't let on. She just seems happy to have people here with her, so I don't press the issue. I_ want_ to, but I don't.

"I understand your brother is getting married soon, is that right?"

"Yes," I say, shifting in my chair. "In a couple of months."

"A string quartet will be playing the reception?"

My heart thumps, and I turn toward Edward. "Yes."

"String quartets are lovely. I always told Edward he'd double his business if he learned how to play the violin."

"I suck at playing the violin," he says. "I make that thing sound like I'm torturing a cat."

"So dramatic," I laugh.

"You wouldn't suck if you practiced," Esme says. "You have such a talent for music."

Edward rolls his eyes, and it occurs to me that this conversation isn't so dissimilar from a few I've had with my own mother. Although, with the two of us, gentle ribbing that starts out innocently usually turns into something much more cutting. But I guess every mother nags; even the one who gave birth to a son who sets my world on fire.

"Don't give me that look. Remember when you were little, and you used to hold your toy guitar up to your chin and try to play it with a ruler? There's a violinist in there dying to get out."

"Mom," Edward groans, lowering his head before he runs his fingers through his hair.

"Oh, hush. You're lucky I don't have my photo albums with all of your naked baby pictures in them. _Then_ you'd have something to complain about." Esme winks at me.

"There's something to look forward to," he mumbles.

"Just wait 'til I get out of-"

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my favorite patient. How are you feeling today?" A nurse who's wearing hot pink scrubs and has a poufy blonde perm that's tamed in a ponytail walks through the door. She's that a-little-too-cheery-to-be-real kind of nice, with a bright voice and wide smile.

"Good." Esme leans toward me and mutters, "Despite the fact that my nurse was being a complete dictator earlier."

"I heard that," the nurse says, playfully narrowing her eyes rimmed with way too much eyeliner for her delicate features.

"I meant for you to."

"You're not fooling anyone. You're gonna miss me when you're gone," the nurse says.

"I suppose," Esme sighs.

"How are you, Edward?" the nurse asks.

"I'm good, Lauren. You?"

"Eh, aside from my patients giving me a hard time, I can't complain," she teases. She grins as she looks in my direction. "I see we have a new visitor."

"This is my girlfriend, Bella." Edward's fingers slide down the inside of my arm until they're all wrapped up with mine. I grin when he gives my hand a squeeze, and I feel about ten feet tall. His _girlfriend_. I don't know if he realizes it, but this is the first time he's ever called me that. It's just a word, a title, and so simple compared to all the things we _really_ are to each other, but I love it. I love hearing it, I love the way his voice sounds when he says it, and the smile it puts on his face. I love being the one he uses that word for.

"Huh," Lauren says as she claps Edward on his shoulder. "I never thought I'd see the day."

Edward looks at me with happy eyes. I grin at his grin, and when I see Esme, she's grinning wider than me and Edward put together.

"Bella, this is my mom's favorite nurse and dictator, Lauren."

"You got that right," she says as she shakes my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Bella."

"It's nice to meet you, too."

"You've gotta be careful with her." Edward leans in close, talking to me in a too-loud whisper. "You don't want to get on her bad side."

"Smartass," she says, laughing. "But he's right about that."

It's so weird to see Edward's rapport with people outside of the office. I've never really seen him interact with anyone we don't work with, aside from Emmett the couple of times he's been over. Edward's not quite as at ease as he is when we're alone, but he's not on edge, either. I'd always expected to see a different side of his life once he started letting me in a little more, but I never expected to see a completely different side of _him_. It's new, and comfortable, and makes this thing between us feel more concrete.

"I'm gonna go check on some other patients, but I'll come by again a little later," Lauren says. She peers at Esme's tray, which is empty, except for the bowl of nuclear waste-like broth. She raises an eyebrow.

"You can look at me like that every day for the rest of my imprisonment here," Esme says with a calm smile. "I'm not eating that. It's never going to happen."

Lauren doesn't fight; she just shakes her head, picks up Esme's tray, and disappears into the hallway.

"I really will miss her," Esme says as she smoothes her blankets, and the fabric dips and rises over what is most definitely a brace. I slowly turn toward Edward so I don't get caught staring. Since he said she's self-conscious about it, the last thing I want her to think is that her son is dating a rude, insensitive gawker.

"Do you get to go home soon?" I ask.

"Doctor says by the end of September or beginning of October." She pulls out a folded-over calendar with a bunch of red 'X's marking off the days.

"Not that you're counting or anything," I tease.

Esme laughs. "No, not one bit. I'm running out of things to do here," she says, looking out the window. "I miss being outside, sleeping in my own bed..." As she trails off, I know those are only the beginning of the things that she misses. A few seconds later, she lightly shakes her head, and looks over at Edward. "Did you bring my books?"

"Shit," Edward sighs. "I left them in the car." Not surprising, since he seemed so scattered before we got here. He stands, and fishes his keys out of his pocket. "I'll go get 'em. Do you wanna come?"

I want to stay. Even though the right thing to do would be to offer to go to the car myself, the chance at some one-on-one time with his mother is too much to resist. "I'll keep your mom company. If that's okay," I say, turning toward Esme.

She looks pleased. Edward looks hesitant. I should go with him, but I can't make myself do it.

"Okay, um…" he says as he slowly walks toward the door. Once he reaches it, he hangs out, like he doesn't want to go. "I guess...I guess I'll be back."

I offer him a soft smile to let him know that I just want to talk to her a little more, that he doesn't need to be nervous. When he sees me, he presses his lips together, and nods. He doesn't look mad, just tentative.

It takes a second for him to finally convince himself to leave, and once Edward's gone and the two of us are alone, I remember that I haven't come to visit emptyhanded. "I almost forgot that I brought a little something for you," I say, reaching into my purse. Esme looks curious, and excited; like a prisoner about to receive a cake that has a file baked into it. "Edward said these are your favorite."

I place the plastic baggie I brought from home in her hands, and she holds it like I've handed her the crown jewels or something. Edward said it was okay to bring her a few. They're just plain sugar cookies, but she treats them like they're a treasure. In a hospital, I suppose they are.

"Oooh," she squeals, sounding like a cute, overexcited child. "I think I love you." She opens the baggie, and takes a deep breath before she pulls out a cookie. She takes a bite, then closes her eyes and hums as she chews. "Edward tried making these for me not too long ago."

I get this odd mental image of Edward bent over a tray of blackened, smoking cookies, wearing an apron and huge oven mitts shaped like beer bottles or something ridiculous a guy would have. The thought of Edward baking for his mother makes me smile. Could I have found a sweeter guy?

"Did they turn out well?" I would bet my next paycheck that the answer is no.

"That depends on what you wanted to use them for. Edward and I had a good laugh about it, but these...these are _heaven_."

"I'm glad you like them."

"'Like' isn't a strong enough word," she says, reaching into the bag for another cookie.

As Esme chews, I look to her right, at the small table pushed up against the wall next to me. The bottom shelf has a stack of magazines and books that are precariously leaning to the side, and the table's surface is nearly overflowing with photographs.

There's something about pictures, especially the ones that belong to strangers, that make you want to look at them. Like they're tiny, colorful pieces of a puzzle that help you figure out who that person is. You can learn a lot about someone by the memories they hold dear, whether they're an animal lover, a nature lover, an adventurer, or a homebody.

By looking at Esme's collection, I can tell she's someone who loves her family.

"May I?" I ask, nodding toward the table. It's a little rude to just sit here and stare at her things without permission.

"Absolutely," she says before taking another bite of her cookie. "Pictures are meant to be looked at."

I stand and lean over so I can see them better. A few larger frames line the back of the table, all holding school portraits of a teenaged Edward. His face is rounder than it is now, not as defined, but he looks nearly the same as he did in the pictures I saw at Tanya's house. There's one of him when he was much younger; he's tucked beneath Esme's arm as the two of them stand in front of the castle at Disney World. Edward's lips are stained cherry-popsicle-red, and he's got those big, awkward, just-grown-in adult teeth that peek out from between lips that turn up in that goofy smile I love so much.

There's a smaller one of Edward as a toddler sitting in a walker. He's got chubby pink cheeks, big, inquisitive eyes, and drool lining the corner of his mouth as he gums a rubber dinosaur.

The pictures in front of all the rest, though, _those_ are the real treasures.

There's a profile shot of Esme and a tall man who I assume is Edward's father, kissing on a church altar surrounded by flowers, and friends, and family. Next to it is one that I can't help but reach for; I'm drawn to it like a magnet. Protected by a simple silver frame is a picture of a smiling young boy and the man he wanted to grow up to be.

"Is this-"

"Yes," Esme says with a sad smile. She reaches out and grasps the right corner of the frame, then turns it so she can see it better. "That's my husband, Carlisle. I think Edward was about six in that picture."

Oh, he _looks_ six. The skin on his gangly little arms and legs is tan from a day spent outside. His messy hair sticks up in a cowlick in the back, and a few sweaty strands stick to his forehead. It's the same reddish-brown that it is now, but the summer sun's highlights have made it lighter. He's carefree. He's a _kid_.

His father is so handsome. He's chiseled and lean, with wavy blonde hair. He's got perfect teeth behind a smile to die for, which brings out a dimple that's remarkably similar to the one he passed down to his son.

Edward and Carlisle sit side by side, surrounded by tools, their legs dangling from the edge of a tiny deck in front of a tiny tree house.

The tree house Edward tried so desperately to hold on to.

"Edward lost all four of his top front teeth at the same time," Esme says, this soft smile on her face as she lets go of the frame. "This little boy, Riley, and his family had moved in next door to us. He had a cleft palate, and a bit of a speech impediment. Some of his teeth were missing or hadn't grown in properly. The kids were relentless in making fun of that poor child. Edward came home from school one day, missing all four of the top ones. They were a little loose, but he pulled them; so he could be like Riley, he said."

The way she speaks of her son, with that soft, gentle voice and unrelenting glow of pride, makes me understand that she wants me to know how incredibly lucky I am to have him.

"That sounds like Edward," I say. I do know how lucky I am. _So_ lucky.

"Carlisle would tease him about it, because he'd talk a little funny. Edward used to tell him that his tongue liked having a window," she laughs.

God, I love him. Who he was then, who he is now, and everything in between.

"He must've been adorable." I trace my finger along the edge of the frame before I put it back in its place.

"Tell me, Bella," Esme says, leaning closer toward me. "How's he_ really _doing?"

This short twinge of panic bursts through me, because of all the things I had expected her to ask me today, that wasn't one of them. Then again, I hadn't expected the two of us to have any time alone together, either. Of course she'd want to know how her son is doing. Edward, being Edward, probably doesn't tell her, because he doesn't want her to worry about him. And now that I think about it, that's most likely the reason he didn't want her to know we'd be packing today, or at least why he hid that he'd needed to take my brother up on his offer to help.

I take a deep breath and tuck my hair behind my ear. "He's okay. He's frazzled; you know how he worries. But he's good. Better."

She sighs and runs her finger along her blanket, getting this far-off look in her eyes. "My son, with the weight of the world on his shoulders." She shakes her head and looks down, and I know she feels the guilt of putting him in this position.

"He's so much better than he used to be," I say, trying to lighten her load. "Honestly. He's more relaxed now." I'm careful not to elaborate, because I don't know if she's aware of how much I know about their situation.

She nods and looks out the window, a world of regret in her eyes. Then she softens, and turns toward me.

"He's changed a lot since he met you." She reaches beside her and picks up the picture of Edward and Carlisle in their tree house. "I knew that would happen the first time he mentioned you."

"You did?" I'm feeling kind of shy all of a sudden, so I look down and swipe at an imaginary smudge on the top of my shoe.

"Oh, yes." She turns the frame she's holding toward me so I can see Edward's bright, shining face. "He reminds me more of this boy now. He smiles like this when he talks about you," she says, grinning as she lays the picture in her lap. "You've brought him back to life."

There's a lump in my throat so tight, and my vision gets blurry as I blink away tears that start to fall. She pats my hand as I cry, and I can't stop, because…is there a more wonderful compliment a mother can give to the girl who's in love with her son?

Esme sniffles as she hands me a tissue, then she takes one and dabs at her eyes. "I didn't mean to make you cry," she says.

"Don't worry," I tell her, wiping my nose. "They're good tears."

She smiles. "I thought I'd upset you."

"No, not at all. I think that was exactly what I needed to hear."

"I'm glad." She balls up her tissue, and I throw hers and mine into the trash can in the far corner of the room. "Tell me, have you seen this apartment we're going to be moving into?"

Well, I guess she's aware that I know everything. That's a relief.

"Yes. I was with Edward when he rented it."

Esme purses her lips and nods. "I wish I could help. Do you two have it under control? Edward keeps assuring me it is, but he wants to take care of everything himself…"

"I know all about that," I tease.

"Yes, he's told me," she says. It feels a little strange that Esme seems to know so much about me, even though we've only just met. Even stranger is how comfortable I feel with her, how at ease I am telling her these things and discussing them so freely after knowing her for less than an hour.

"Bella," she says, turning toward me. "My son is a remarkable person. When his father died, Edward put every responsibility on his shoulders, and he's carried them around his whole life. He's never learned to let go, and I suppose that's my fault. He's spent most of his life being the parent, and…" She looks down, and a tear slowly falls over the curve of her cheek before she wipes it away. I hand her a tissue; we seem to be using a lot of those today. "Being stuck in this hospital for the past few months has given me some time to think. All I can_ do_ is think," she whispers. "We've been doing things the wrong way for a long time. Sometimes we take two steps forward, and three steps back. But we try. Don't give up on him, okay?"

There are times when watching two people put each other's happiness first can be painful; like when it leads to secrets, and lies, and burdens. But when it's done with honesty, and love, and the absolute best of intentions, it's stunning.

Her eyes are sincere, and just in case I didn't hear her the first time, she says it again. "Please don't give up on him."

"I won't," I say, smiling. At this point, giving up on Edward would be impossible. "I can't."

"You make my son happy, and that's all I've ever wanted for him. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome." I swipe the back of my hand across my wet cheek. "He makes _me_ happy. So, thank you. For him."

She sighs, and her shoulders loosen as her lips spread into a grin. "He'll be back soon, and if he sees all this crying, he might be a little hesitant to bring you here again."

I laugh. "Quick," I say as I hand her another tissue. "Wipe away the evidence." Her eyes are a little red, but her cheeks aren't blotchy or anything. "If he asks, we'll just tell him I told you a really funny joke."

Esme and I chitchat about topical things for the next few minutes, careful to avoid any of the subjects that made our eyes all watery earlier. At this point, I can't even tell Esme had been crying, and we're laughing at a story she's telling me about her night nurse when I turn my head and see Edward standing in the doorway.

He's holding a small stack of books in one hand, and a bottle in the other. There's this serene smile on his face as he looks at the two of us.

"The cafeteria was open, so I thought I'd bring you some tea," he says, taking a step inside. He walks over and sets the bottle down next to the largest picture on the table, then sits on the edge of the bed as he hands Esme her books.

"Thank you, sweetie," she says, reaching up to gently pat his cheek. "I was just boring Bella with some of my hospital stories."

"If 'boring' me is the same as making me laugh, then yes, she was totally boring me."

Even though I have the feeling he'd been eavesdropping on our conversation for a minute or two before he walked in, I can tell he's wondering what we were talking about while he was gone. I can't blame him; if I'd left him alone with my mother after they'd just met, well...I don't even want to think about it.

There's something about his eyes that remind me of the boy in the picture that sits on the table next to us, and I'm amazed by just how much I've learned about him in the twenty minutes he's been gone. I have to reach out to him; I _have_ to touch him. His left leg is the closest to me, and as I gently press my palm to his thigh, his fingers lightly trail over the back of my hand.

When he smiles, I _know_ he knows that coming here today was right.

Seconds later, Edward reaches over and fiddles with Esme's hospital bracelet before he bends over to straighten the leaning tower of books at the bottom of her bedside table. While he's distracted, Esme plants her hand down on the mattress to push herself up a little, and she lets out this small groan as she moves, probably jostling her hurt leg.

Edward reacts immediately. "Do you need your pain medication? I'll go get Lauren."

His attentiveness is endearing. And as he fusses over his mother, I begin to realize that he doesn't see her the way I do. He _can't_. He can't see that even though her body is broken, her spirit is not, and that while she needs care, she doesn't need to be _taken _care_ of_. To him, she's still the grieving woman who lost her husband, and needs a sturdy shoulder to lean on.

"Edward," she says, laughing. "I'm fine. I'm old, I get aches and pains. Having all this hardware wrapped around my leg isn't helping. Someday you'll know what it's like to have your joints pop every time you think about moving. Go sit."

Edward stands to move over to the chair next to me, and despite the remnants of a smile on his face, there's that ever-present worry line creasing his forehead. I wish I could take it away; make it disappear with love, and kisses, and so many good things. Maybe in time, I can. For now, I settle for holding his hand.

"Did you try these cookies, Edward?"

He nods. "About one or ten."

"Edward told me you're a spectacular cook, Bella," Esme says, reaching into the bag for another cookie. Then she closes the top, folds it over, and puts it in the table's drawer.

"I wouldn't say I'm spectacular," I say, looking at Edward. "But I try."

"She tries spectacularly, and she succeeds spectacularly."

The way Edward smiles at me, punctuated with this cute little wink, makes my insides flutter. I love that feeling; he makes me feel the best things. We hide _so much_ at work. I have to keep myself from reaching out for him during meetings when he says something funny, and he struggles not to put his hand on the small of my back when we walk side-by-side. Even though it's not his fault, when we're with our coworkers under bright fluorescent lights, I feel like a secret. But here, with his mother, with someone who _really_ matters, I feel like a treasure.

"Hopefully, when I get out of here I'll have a chance to try for myself."

I sneak a quick look at Edward, not wanting to promise anything that he's uncomfortable with. He's nothing but huge grins and hopeful eyes.

"I'd like that."

Esme asks after Tanya and her family, and once Edward answers, he launches into a full-scale attack, wanting to know more about the new round of physical therapy Esme started yesterday. Whenever she ticks off a new word or procedure, Edward spouts off with the benefits of said word or procedure. He's like a walking, talking medical Wikipedia, and even though I can tell the twenty questions annoys Esme, Edward's investment in the whole thing warms my heart. This knowledge can't be holdover from his med school days; he's obviously done a ton of research.

After about five minutes of back and forth with her son, Esme seems to be tired of talking about her therapy, and moves the conversation in another direction.

"Is the weather nice today?"

"Yeah," Edward says, turning to look out the window behind us. "But the sky is kind of grey over there. It'll probably rain at some point."

It's a good thing we won't be moving until next week.

"Can you leave the bed?" I ask before I have time to really think about it. The words feel clumsy coming out of my mouth, and given the way that she looked so longingly out the window earlier, I hate that I may have just suggested the impossible. But there's a wheelchair in the corner of the room, and I saw some patients being wheeled around when we got here. "Can we take you out to the terrace? Is that all right?"

I can see in Esme's eyes that she'd like nothing more than to go outside, but, for some reason, she shakes her head. "Now that I've got this hardware, it's such a production when I have to move. And if it's going to rain, well...I don't want to get all rusty. That would _definitely_ put me on Lauren's bad side."

I smile. God, I love this woman.

"Besides," she says, looking at Edward. "I don't want to spoil your _lunch_ plans."

I can practically see Edward's shoulders tighten as Esme speaks. There's something in her cadence that makes even my stomach clench, and it isn't until I see Edward's eyes slowly lift to meet his mother's gaze that I realize why.

He was just the recipient of some strange variation of The Mom Voice; the tone that, aside from the use of your full name, lets you know that you're in for it. I've been on the receiving end of it countless times in my life. It's never fun.

The cool thing about Esme, though, is that she's not over-dramatic or ominous about the declaration. She's got this little smile that comes from knowing your child like the back of your hand. From letting them know that while they may be younger than you are, they're still not smart enough to pull a fast one on you.

And as Edward sheepishly looks up at his mother, I start to understand that I'm not the only one he's having to learn to let in. It's a different dynamic, sure, but these two have lied and tried to protect each other for so long that I imagine it's a pretty hard habit to break. But they're trying, I've got to give them that.

I pick up my purse, and stand. "I think I'm gonna just go out in the-"

"No," Edward says, looking up at me. He laces his fingers between mine, and the feel of him pulls me back down to my seat. "No, Bella. Please stay."

Oh, this is big. Of all the big things that have happened today, this might be the biggest. The metaphorical door that he's been letting me into, inch by inch since we met, is wide open now. My muscles tense in anticipation.

Edward rubs the back of my hand with his thumb for what feels like minutes, until he finally speaks. "Bella's brother is coming down to help me...to help _us_ pack. I'm...I'm worried that I won't be able to get everything together in time for the movers next weekend, and he offered, so..."

"We'll get it done," I whisper. I mean it as a soft encouragement, because I know that turning around years of habits is hard, and I want him to know that he's not alone. He has me.

He lifts my hand up to his lips and kisses the back of it before he says, "I'm sorry I tried to hide it from you, Mom."

Esme smiles. "Earlier I told you I didn't need the nurse," she says softly. "I do. My leg is hurting, and I need my meds. Would you get Lauren on your way out?"

"On our way out? But-"

"Go enjoy that sunshine before it's gone," she says emphatically. "Take a few minutes for yourselves today."

Edward doesn't seem so sure. "Mom-" he begins to protest.

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Go. I'd chase you out of here if I could. Maybe I still can..." She sits up, and Edward looks worried that she's actually going to do it.

"I'll go find her," I say as I stand. "That way you two can say goodbye." I reach over and take Esme's hand, giving her fingers a squeeze. "It was so nice to meet you."

"You too, Bella. You come back and see me again, okay?"

I nod. "Okay. I'll bring more cookies, too," I whisper.

"You don't have to bring anything but yourself. And you can let this one tag along too, if he wants to," she says, tapping Edward's arm.

I laugh and say, "You've got a deal."

I walk out to the nurse's station, and let the woman at the desk know that Esme's in pain. She gives me a polite smile, and tells me she'll send someone right in.

While I'm standing in the hallway opposite Esme's door, I can see her and Edward. He's turned toward her, sitting on the side of her bed, and she's cupping his face with her hands. She's definitely smiling, and I can tell he is, too. When her mouth starts moving and Edward nods, I wish there were some way I could hear what she was saying to him, even though it's none of my business. It's such a tender, quiet, parental moment.

It's been so long since I've had one of those with my own mother. Esme's looking at Edward the same way Mom used to look at me, and the image touches this place deep inside of me, relentlessly squeezing my heart, making my chest tight.

It's the first time I've ever longed for something that Edward has.

Tears prick my eyes, because what I'm seeing is so far away from anything I can have right now. I know it's not entirely my fault, but I have this nagging ache in the pit of my stomach, wondering how long I can go without speaking to my mother. There's no way I can cut her out of my life completely, and lately I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that we may never get along. And what do I do then? Do I never see my father and Em? Do I just sit there and take it? Isn't there some happy medium?

There's too much indecision, and not enough room to explore the possibilities. Every single possible outcome makes me ache a little, except for the one that ends with my mother accepting me and my decisions completely. I know it'll never happen, but the idea is there. It's just on the edge of my thoughts, making all the others seem a little brighter, and making the alternatives harder to swallow.

I look away, because I'm invading their privacy, but part of it is a measure of self-preservation, too. And as I examine the way my shoes contrast with the floor tiles, I feel this overwhelming need to call my mother. Not because she's right, and I'm wrong. Not because I'm giving up, or giving in.

I_ have_ to tell her I love her. Edward has taught me so much since I've known him; he's so strong and brave. He's lucky to have gotten a second chance with his mother, but he'll never have that with Carlisle. After seeing Edward with Esme this morning, I don't know what I would do if I were ever in his position. But I do know that if a police officer knocked on my door in the middle of the night and told me Mom had been in an accident, and things were the way they are between us now, I'd hate myself.

I don't want to live a life of 'what-ifs' and regrets.

I pat my pockets looking for my phone, when I remember that I left it in my bag in Edward's car. My heart sinks, but I know I won't lose my nerve. Maybe I can't change Mom's mind, and maybe we'll never see eye-to-eye, but I can find peace with her.

So, sometime today, I'll duck into a quiet place. And I'll take a few minutes to find my peace.

When Edward finally comes out of Esme's room, his smile is bigger than the Space Needle. It pushes away all the doubt and insecurity that's been pulling at me since I've been standing in this hallway.

"Let's get out of here," he says.

Edward wraps his arm around me, and I turn my head to kiss the hand that's resting on my shoulder before I reach up and twine our fingers together. I drape my arm around his waist, and as we walk, I swear there's a spring in his step. We navigate the hallways back to the parking lot with a different kind of urgency, and when we step out of the automatic doors onto the sidewalk outside, Edward pulls me close and kisses my forehead.

Even though the sun has ducked behind some clouds, I feel warm all over.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

I don't think I've ever heard Edward say that before. Just to make sure I heard him correctly, I ask, "What?"

"It just...it feels really great out here, doesn't it?"

There's that hope in his voice again. And just like last time I heard it, I grab on tight, and don't let go.

"It's wonderful."

When we get to the car, he walks me to the passenger side and unlocks the lock. Taking advantage of the way his arms stretch out as he holds the door open for me, I wrap my arms around his waist and press my cheek against his chest. He seems surprised for a second, but then he squeezes me back, and rests his chin on the top of my head.

"What's this for?" he asks as I loosen my grip.

"For bringing me here. For smiling like that." I stretch to kiss his chin.

"She loves you."

The rush of his mother's approval makes my skin tingle all the way down to my fingertips. "She's amazing."

"Not what you expected?"

"No, it's not that," I say, trailing my fingers across his t-shirt, right above his heart. "She's just different than I thought she'd be. She's very funny, and..." I pause before I say the words, but they're right, I know it. "She's strong."

He swallows as his eyebrows knit together, and he looks down at the ground.

"You're a lot like her," I say. Just like that, the smile's back.

I take his hand in mine as we pull out of the parking lot, and we're quiet on the way to his house. Edward drives with this grin on his face, and every minute or two when I look over at him, I have to grin, too.

We drive across familiar roads that take us to ones that I'm not so familiar with. And as we go, the soft hum of the radio is drowned out by the squeaky swishing of Edward's windshield wipers swiping away fat little raindrops.

The car passes under trees that cover the roads like canopies, and fairly large houses that are close together fade into really large houses that are farther apart. They're all distinct and full of character, despite the Victorian style that seems to be a common element throughout the neighborhood.

When Edward takes a left into his driveway, my heart skips a beat. Beautiful doesn't even begin to describe this house.

It's set back from the road on a little slope of the greenest, prettiest grass. Trees and bushes line the perimeter, and even though they don't look as well-manicured as the ones that surround the other houses, they're still gorgeous, and I wonder if Edward's been the one keeping this yard in shape. He has to be, there's no way he could afford a landscaper.

The house is a soft yellow, almost light enough to be cream. White trim covers the railing of the wraparound porch, as well as the variously-shaped windows on both stories. The only spot of imperfection is the 'SOLD' sign that's posted in the front yard.

Edward parks at the bottom of the driveway, which seems weird. But when I look up and see the worn-out basketball hoop that hangs above the garage door, I understand why he wouldn't want to drive over that spot.

"We're going to get a little wet," Edward says, leaning over the steering wheel to look out at the sky. It's just a steady sprinkle, nothing too bad.

"I don't care."

His eyes are wide and smile-bright. "Sit tight."

He jumps out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Seconds later, he comes over to my side, pulls me up and out in one quick movement, and before I know it we're both running across the slick grass, laughing in the rain.

We pound up the steps and onto the porch, where a swing hangs, just like the one we have at home in Forks. A few locks of Edward's rain-damp hair fall down across his forehead, and his chest is heaving. He's alive, and beautiful.

"You ready?"

Normally, I would ask him the same thing. But something's shifted; something's different.

"Yes." I nod. "I'm ready."

Edward's keys clink together as he turns them in the lock. Then he reaches back, takes my hand, and smiles as we step inside.


	15. Decoupling Epoch

**Chapter Fifteen**

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_**Decoupling Epoch**__: The time about a million years after the expansion of the universe began when the universe became transparent, and light could, for the first time, travel great distances before being absorbed or scattered._

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Edward's house smells like cinnamon and fresh laundry; warm and welcoming. It makes me think of apple pies, and family get-togethers, and all the good things that go on inside four walls that turn the place you live into the place you call home.

I shuffle the bottoms of my wet shoes against the carpet just inside the door, and take a step forward.

God, this place is huge. I think my whole apartment could fit inside the foyer. The ceiling stretches at least twenty-five feet up, and this beautiful crystal chandelier hangs from the center, directly above a pristine cherry wood floor. There's pretty sage-green wallpaper with wide stripes hanging above perfect white wainscoting that lines the room, broken up by two doorways that are situated on either side of me.

In the sitting room to my left I see stacks and stacks of cardboard boxes—their sides graffitied with thick black Sharpie—which remind me that this house doesn't belong to Edward anymore. It's been signed away to strangers on some godforsaken dotted line. My stomach sinks, and this strange emptiness pulls at my insides.

"What do you think?" Edward asks, standing by the door, looking nervous and excited as he rubs the back of his neck. His lips quirk up in the beginnings of my favorite smile. How can I feel empty when he looks at me like that?

"It's gorgeous." I move toward the stairs, and run my fingers along the right side of the banister, where the worn wood feels like history. It's the same rich color as the floor, but the right side of the top of the railing is faded. "What happened here?"

Edward bites his lip as he glances up toward the second floor. He darts forward in a flash, taking the steps two-at-a-time until he's a little over halfway up, then he rubs his hands together. When he hitches his leg up and sits on the railing, I instinctively move back. I love the way he looks as he slides down, eyes schoolboy-wide and his arms and legs all wobbly as they stretch out to keep him balanced.

He lands on his feet, a little breathless and a lot happy. It's infectious.

"That looks fun," I say, rocking back on my heels.

"It _is_ fun." He raises his eyebrows. "C'mon."

"I wanna try, but-"

He takes my hand and tugs on it. "C'_mon_."

Sounding as excited as he does, there's no way I can't follow him. He leads me up the steps, and lets out this short breath as he grasps my waist and picks me up, setting me down on the railing.

"I won't let you fall," he says. And I_ know_, I'd bet my life that he wouldn't.

I wobble a little as my body adjusts to balance on the narrow piece of wood that sits at an incline, but Edward steadies me. He's dangerously close, making my insides do all of these crazy flips and twists, just like they always do whenever he's around. The way his fingers ride up beneath my shirt and press into my skin makes me feel dizzy in a way that heights and nerves never could.

"We'll go slow," he says with this sly little grin as he lets go of my hips to hold onto my hand. "It takes practice to be able to go as fast as I did, anyway." He winks, the showoff.

"Okay." I nod, taking a deep breath. He moves to the middle of the stairs, just far enough away that if I start to fall, he'll be able to tug on my arm and catch me.

"Ready?"

"Yep," I say, shifting my weight on the railing. It creaks a little. I hope Edward didn't hear that.

I smile and giggle like a three-year-old as I slide, and I feel incredibly stupid, but incredibly awesome at the same time. Edward laughs too, probably _at_ me, but I don't care. My balance isn't the best, but he's keeping me upright, and I'm not scared.

I slow to a stop when I reach the dip where the railing turns into a curlycued wooden spiral at the bottom, and Edward touches my knee and turns me toward him, where he settles himself between my legs.

"Fun?" he asks.

"Yes." I laugh. "I feel like a child, but yes. Thanks for holding onto me."

"I'll hold onto you whenever you want me to," he says, his eyes bright, and his smile warm. There's such a light air around us; it makes me feel sixteen again, all hopeful and happy and stupid in love with this boy who sets my heart flying.

"I want you to." My fingers trail up his arms and across his shoulders until they knit themselves into his hair, and I love the unbelieving little laugh he gives me when everything goes from silly to serious. He does what I ask, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me closer; stomach against stomach, and chest against chest.

It's not long before we're swept away in some flurry of lips and tongues and soft little breaths and noises that make me want to find new places to kiss, while his hands touch my skin anywhere he can find it. We're so close, but it's too far, and I need more,_ more_...

"Show me your room," I whisper into his ear. I don't care what's in there, as long as there's someplace soft he can lay on top of me. We're always on the wrong side of time, and I'm tired of hoping that we'll catch a break. I need him; I can't wait anymore. "Please take me upstairs."

"Bella," he breathes as he kisses my neck. His hand is under my shirt, teasing me, making my eyelids flutter and my chest heavy. "Your brother's going to be here soon."

"So," I say, dragging my nose along his jawline. The stubble there is perfect. "We only need a few minutes."

Edward huffs, looking more than a little offended. "Is that all you think of me?"

"No, I didn't mean it that way," I say softly, apologizing with a kiss. I fully expect that we'll need _hours_, but I've almost reached my breaking point. "Don't you want me?"

"Of _course_ I do, can't you feel it?" he says as his thumb grazes the side of my breast. "But if Emmett starts knocking on the door every time I touch you, I'm going to get performance anxiety." His tongue glides across the side of my neck, and I sigh. He plays so dirty. "Besides, a few minutes isn't enough time for me to even get started on you."

Dirty, dirty, dirty.

"I'm just...I..." I tug on his belt, he smiles against my lips, and all I can do is _want_. I want his skin on mine, and the weight of his body above me. I want to feel my legs wrapped around his waist as we get lost in each other. I want _him_. All the time.

"Stay with me tonight." His hand slides down my side, and I shiver. I have no idea how he can hold it together like this; he has superhuman willpower. "We might not get any sleep, but-"

"Who needs sleep?" I shift my hips forward, and his breath catches.

"Jesus," he says, his voice a little quiet and shaky. I can play dirty, too. He rests his forehead on my shoulder and runs his hands along my thighs, up and down, over and over again while he catches his breath. I smile against his neck, and give him small kisses as we both calm down.

When he pulls away, he gives me this goofy, happy grin and says, "Would it be rude to call your brother to cancel?"

I laugh, and drag my thumb across his chin. "Emmett told me he has to leave at six; he's got something he has to do tonight."

"That leaves us-"

"All kinds of time."

The right side of Edward's mouth turns up before he leans in to kiss me, and I grip the sides of his t-shirt, which is still a little damp from the rain. He takes my hands and holds me steady as I slide off of the railing, and once I'm on my feet, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

"Did you miss a call?" My voice is so cautious; I hate that stupid phone. I hate its ring, and I hate the way it has a habit of reaching between us and pulling him away from me.

He shakes his head, and looks up at me. "No." He turns the ringer to vibrate. "I'm going to put this over here," he says, placing the phone on a small table next to the front door. "No distractions." He seems so sure of his decision, and I wonder if something his mother said to him earlier has anything to do with it.

"No distractions at all today?"

His index finger lightly traces my jawline down to my chin before he leans in close to my ear and says, "Or tonight."

My knees feel weak, and my head is all dreamy. "Okay," I breathe.

Edward likes to see me flustered almost as much as he likes being the one flustering me. "I'd love to spend the day talking about tonight, but if we're going to have time at all, we should probably get started."

It takes a few seconds for me to come back down to Earth. "What do we do first?"

"Well," he says, looking around, "I have a big chunk of each room packed up, but none of them are finished. I need help squaring things away."

I grin and wrap my arm around his, because that's what you do when you see progress. He just admitted he needs help with something. I want to make him a certificate and frame it.

"What about the upstairs and the basement?"

"Done. All that's left is this floor."

"Okay, so...how about we start here," I say, pointing to the room at the end of the hallway on the right side of the staircase. "And we'll work our way around."

"All right. Emmett can help us until six tonight, but how long can he stay tomorrow?"

"He's got to work first thing Monday morning, so he said he'd hit the road around eight."

"And he's got a place to stay tonight?"

"He'll be out late; he's staying with a friend who lives nearby. He said he'd be here early tomorrow morning, though. He's usually up and around by seven, so he'll be knocking on the door not too long after."

"I'll make sure to set the alarm so we're up by then," Edward says, smiling.

This flush that starts at my cheeks and goes all the way down to my toes heats my body, because he's going to set the alarm to make sure we're up. Here. In his bed. After a night of not sleeping.

"Let's start in the dining room," he says, reaching for my hand.

"Oh, wait!" I walk over to my bag, which I'd dropped it next to the front door, and pull out a few sheets of stickers and a Sharpie. I put my phone in my pocket, too, just in case Emmett calls and needs directions. "I thought of a system," I say, as the soles of my sneakers squeak across the shiny wooden floor. "We'll put yellow stickers on the boxes that are going to storage, red on the ones that hold stuff to be donated, and green for everything that's going to be moved into your apartment."

He looks at me like I've just handed him a thousand-dollar check or something. Then he steps forward, wraps his arm around me, and kisses the top of my head.

"I'm glad you're here," he says, twisting the ends of my hair around his fingers. "I should've brought you over sooner. Not to help me pack, just...just to be here. With me."

"I'm glad, too."

"I built all of this up in my head, and...I kept thinking the worst. Not about you or anything, it's just that...I don't know. I keep waiting for you to run away screaming."

I squeeze his waist. "You've gotta stop thinking that you're the only one who's messed up here. I'm going through some mid-mid-life crisis or something. I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life. I can't have a conversation with my mother, my family's all caught up in the middle of it, and I don't know how to fix it. And...you can run, too, you know. I'm scared you'll run, too."

"I can't run, actually," he says, gently swaying me from side to side. "I've got this baseball injury from junior high school. I tried to slide into third, and things got nasty."

I laugh, and lightly pinch his side. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Me either," he says. "Well, that's a lie. I have to go out to the car. I bought some more packing tape and left it in the trunk. But I'm going to walk, not run. And then I'll come right back." His hand slowly slides down my arm, and he flashes a smile as he walks away.

Once the front door shuts, I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone. I take a deep breath, and just like I promised myself I would earlier, I speed dial my parents' number. Dad works every Saturday, so if anyone picks up the phone it'll be my mother. My heart thumps, thumps, thumps. _Ring_. What am I going to say? I have _no_ idea. 'I love you'? Is that it? _Ring_. Oh, I should've thought this through. And what if we get into a conversation and Edward comes back in? _Ring. _I should hang up, but why isn't she answering? She's always home on Saturdays. _Ring_.

Once the answering machine clicks and I hear my father's voice on the recording, all the nerves that had my blood pulsing come to a stand-still, and the abrupt stop makes everything inside of me feel like it's falling. I'm disappointed. I hadn't realized how much I wanted to talk to her until I couldn't.

Whatever it is I have to say to her shouldn't be left on an answering machine, so as soon as I hear the beep, I disconnect the call. I stare at my phone's wallpaper, wishing for that time back, or hoping her number will pop up on the screen, I don't know. But when I hear Edward's footsteps on the front porch, I quickly shove the phone back in my pocket.

"Is Emmett out there?" I ask as Edward walks through the door.

"Not yet."

I pull my phone back out, and dial Emmett's number. When he picks up, he doesn't even give me a chance to speak.

"Ten minutes," he says above the rumble of his truck in the background. "I got tied up with something, but I'll be there in ten minutes."

He hangs up before I can say goodbye, and I smile as I slide the phone into my pocket.

"He'll be here soon."

"Wanna get started?"

I follow him to the end of the hall, and through a large entryway into an elegant dining room. The long table seats twelve, and there are place settings at every seat: plain white plates with silver rings around the edges that are nicer than anything I've got at home. The runner that covers the length of the table has a circular indentation in the middle—probably from a vase—and I wonder if Esme kept fresh flowers in here at some point in time.

The walls are a deep, rich red against the white trim. There's a huge sideboard on the right side of the room, and an ornate gold-framed mirror hangs above it. On the left is a cabinet that nearly takes up the whole wall, with large doors and clear, clean glass that shows off the delicate, expensive-looking china inside.

"I've gotten almost everything in here, except for the plates and the silverware," Edward says, reaching for a huge roll of bubble wrap that sits between the cabinet and the wall.

"All right," I say, gently pulling on the cabinet door. The china that's inside is beautiful, even though it's a little bit dusty. Edward folds flaps of cardboard together to construct the bottom of a box, and the rip of the tape rings through the air as he secures it.

I reach up and pull down the first large plate. The pattern is so delicate and pretty, with gold lines sweeping between soft brushes of pinks, and reds, and greens. When I flip it over, my breath catches. I might even gasp a little. _Wedgwood._

"What, what happened?"

"You're just going to pack this in a box and put it in storage?" I ask, letting my fingers slide around the edges.

"Well, yeah. Why?"

"Edward," I say, looking at him kind of incredulously. "This isn't the kind of thing you want to just stack away in storage. These place settings are worth a _lot_ of money."

"They are?"

"Oh, yeah. My nana collected teacups, and she loved china. She used to go on and on about this restaurant my grandpa took her to on one of their anniversaries, and all she could talk about was the Wedgwood. She told me that meal was the best she'd ever eaten, but that 'anything would taste good on five-hundred-dollar china.'"

Edward's eyes get real wide, and he reaches out for the plate before he pulls his hand away. "That plate is worth five hundred dollars?"

"No, not the plate, the whole place setting. The smaller plates, and bowls, and teacups, too. And maybe they aren't worth five hundred dollars, but they're worth _something_, no doubt about that."

I look in the cabinet, and there are sixteen settings. _Sixteen_. I figure there's got to be some kind of case for them to go in, but when I open the bottom door, there's nothing.

When Edward's gaze meets mine, I know what he's thinking. Accountant Edward is tallying up five hundred dollars times sixteen place settings, and Sentimental Edward is trying to confiscate Accountant Edward's calculator. Just in case my own Accountant Bella is doing her own math—and she is—Sentimental Edward speaks up.

"My parents got this china for their wedding," he says quietly.

When it comes to the past, Sentimental Edward will always win out.

"Well," I say, putting the plate down and ripping off a huge strip of bubble wrap, "we'll wrap them up in a ton of this stuff, and we'll take these boxes to the apartment ourselves. Don't trust this to the movers."

Edward nods, and as he wraps the second place setting, he gets this amused smile on his face. "That explains why Mom got so upset when I used the teacups to make a prison camp for my G.I. Joes."

"You did?"

He laughs. "Yeah. I had them spread all across the table, and connected them together by tying string to their handles. Mom came in, and I thought she was going to have a heart attack. She started yelling, and Dad tried to calm her down. He made her some tea, and while she was in the kitchen drinking it, he came out to help me untie the cups and put them away."

"Wise man," I say, sliding my fingers down the inside of Edward's arm.

"He told me that the next time I wanted to make a prison camp, I should take some popsicle sticks and drive 'em into the ground outside and tie _those_ together. He said it'd be more realistic. He must've eaten ten boxes of pudding pops that month," he says, laughing as he shakes his head.

I'm torn between being sad that Edward lost such a wonderful father, or being glad that he had him for as long as he did.

"I had prison camps all over the backyard that summer." He's got this cute smile on his face, and it's the first time I can remember him talking about his father and actually looking happy.

I want to remember this look and this story, so I reach up and run the back of my finger over his dimple.

"What?"

"Nothing," I say, popping a bubble wrap bubble between my fingers. "I just like your smile."

"It's been a good day. I wasn't sure it would be. Not because of you," he says quickly, "just...I had all these scenarios in my mind, and...this morning didn't turn out to be like any of them."

"I'm glad," I say, leaning over to kiss him.

There's a knock on the door and Edward pulls away, grinning. I follow him down the hallway, and Emmett's all smiles when Edward opens the door. He's wearing the weird bass shop shirt my mom gave him for his last birthday, and a pair of jean shorts. _Jean_ shorts.

"Hey, man," Emmett says as he steps inside. He's lugging a cooler in one hand, and he's reaching out to shake Edward's hand with the other.

"Thanks for coming," Edward says. "You have no idea how much this helps."

"No problem." Em holds up a cooler that rumbles with half-melted ice, and says, "I've brought some refreshments."

It's kind of cute that Emmett's doing Edward the favor, but still thought to bring drinks along, even though I know Edward stocked his fridge with snacks. Emmett flips the cooler open, and hands a bottle to Edward.

"This stuff is awesome," Edward says, holding the bottle out so my brother can work magic with his bottle opener.

"I know, right? I usually don't like dark lager, but I keep these stocked in the fridge in my garage. My girl can't stand beer, but I've got my own little microbrewery going in there."

"A bag full of barley and a funnel does not a microbrewery make," I tease, hoping Emmett gives me The Face.

Ah,_ there_ it is.

"Hey, little sister," he says, slinging his arm around my shoulders and planting a sloppy kiss on my forehead. I pat his hand and smile, and then use the back of it to wipe his slobber off my skin. "Ugh, gross."

"That's your fault," I say, giving him a squeeze. "Nice jorts, by the way."

"What?" He looks confused.

"Your jean shorts."

He looks down, and smiles. "Like 'em?"

"Yep. You look like you should be on a calendar in a cheap mechanic's office, soaping down a red Trans-Am."

"These are my packing shorts," he says defensively. I start to make a joke when he reaches out and puts his hand over my mouth. "Shut up."

Edward leads the two of us back down the hallway to the dining room, and Emmett leans down and whispers, "This is a big fucking house. I wonder if it has any secret passageways." He's looking at me all wide-eyed, and I can't help but smile at him.

It takes an hour or so for us to pack all the china and linens, and once we're finished in the dining room, we move over to the study. Warm leather couches line the walls, and built-ins hold rows and rows of books and meticulously catalogued magazines. Edward packs one bookshelf while Emmett takes the other, and I move to the far corner of the room to wrap up the breakables that sit on a few of the tables.

We make small talk as we go, but my mind wanders as I pack up expensive-looking knick knack after expensive-looking knick knack. After the discovery of the china in the dining room, and realizing how fine most of the furnishings are in this house, I can't help but wonder how much some of this stuff is worth. I could never bring up the possibility of him selling it, and I don't think he ever would, but it kills me to think that these things will be sitting in a storage room somewhere when they could be sold for money that could actually be of use to him and Esme.

I get so lost in my thoughts of potential hidden fortune that the conversation around me turns into some low hum in the background that I'm barely paying attention to, until something interesting catches my ear.

I know my brother's voice, and the way he sounds when he's trying to start something with me, because he's been antagonizing me for years. What isn't so familiar is the way Edward sounds when he's playing along.

"I've heard it's a great place. My friend Getty and I, we went there to get a burger, but...we couldn't find the address," Emmett says.

"Yeah," Edward replies. "I've only been there once. It's this old restaurant inside of, like, a white house."

"I can't remember the name. Illinois me until I can think of it. There was this spring field in the back. On Mondays after football games, if there were four scores, you'd get seven-"

"You two are jerks, you know that?"

"What do you mean?" Emmett gives Edward a sidelong glance, and they both want to crack up.

"You know what I mean. Next Edward would ask you for a _beard_, I mean beer. Then you'll say something about how you've been thinking Abe-bout the design of the new five dollar bills, or something equally lame. I know how you operate, Emmett. But you," I say, looking at Edward. "I'm most disappointed in you."

I shake my head at him, and he looks down at the ground, probably trying to hide his smile.

"Isabellaaaaaaaa," Emmett says in his creepy Lincoln-voice. He's holding an autobiography open to the worst picture of Abe ever taken as he slowly walks toward me. I reach out to smack him, but I miss.

"Such an ass," I sigh. "Doesn't that ever get old?"

"Not when you react like that, it doesn't," Emmett laughs.

I stand and look at him through narrowed eyes as I formulate a plan. Emmett doesn't quite have a Lincoln-esque fear, but I made him cry once, and I know what it takes. Normally I wouldn't be so petty around Edward, but I'm not going down without a fight, and if he's going to be spending time with the two of us, he's going to have to expect some taunting and teasing. It's what Emmett and I do best.

"Know what, Em?" I ask, my voice purposely small.

"What?" he says, smirking. I hate that self-satisfied look. I will be making it disappear shortly.

I lean in close and whisper, "I see dead people." He shuts the book and puts it down, and narrows his eyes. Ha, I've gotcha now, brother. "Walking around like regular people-"

"Stop." He takes a step back, and I take a step forward.

"They don't know they're dead."

"_Stop_ it, Bella."

"They're_ everywhere_."

His eyes are nearly bugging out of his head, and if we were back home in Forks, years ago, he'd totally cry and call out for Dad.

"That's really low!"

Such a baby. "Oh, and that Lincoln bit wasn't?" I ask, motioning between him and Edward. I love that they teamed up for something, but I'm not so in love with the fact that the 'something' was to make fun of me.

"You know I have a creepy kid complex!"

"Uh, yeah," I say, rolling my eyes. "That's why I did it. You can always dish it out, but you can't take it."

"Whatever," he says, acting like he's not bothered.

"They're _heeeeeeere_," I say in that singsong voice that used to freak him out so much when we were kids.

"Ugh, not _Poltergeist_!"

I laugh. "Run to the light, Carol Ann!"

"Stop!"

"Hey, you two," Edward says, looking at us sternly, despite having a hard time keeping a straight face. "Behave."

I frown at my brother, and he frowns right back. We both say 'sorry' in unison, just like we did when we were younger, and then we return to our packing with our heads hung low. But when I turn toward Edward, he winks at me. I'd let him make fun of my fear of Lincoln every day for the rest of my life as long as it ends with him looking at me like that.

When I'm finished with my area, I walk over and sit down on the floor to pack the bottom of the bookshelf Edward's working on.

"These are pretty sweet, Edward," Em says, not even a minute later.

"What the hell?" I say, my voice echoing through the valley of boxes around us. "You're supposed to be packing those, not reading them."

"Bells," Emmett says, flipping the magazine shut and turning it around so that I can see the cover. "He's got almost every issue of _Car and Driver_ dating back to nineteen seventy-five! These are like...incredible. This is vintage stuff here. If Rosie could see these," he says, glancing up at me cautiously, "well, I won't tell you what would happen, but let's just say it would be really great for me."

"You're disgusting," I say, throwing a wad of newspaper at him.

"What's going on?" Edward asks. He's so focused that he hasn't even heard the rest of our conversation.

"Emmett's drooling over your _Car and Driver_s," I say, pointing at my hapless brother as he thumbs through the magazine, holding it out like he's trying to put it away, but he just can't until he sees one...more...thing...

Edward looks over at him, and this small, sad smile paints his face. "Those were my dad's," he says quietly. Immediately Emmett closes the magazine and carefully puts it down on the stack with the others.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking at Edward earnestly. "I didn't know. Rosie likes to restore old cars, and I haven't ever seen some of these before. I wasn't trying to-"

"It's okay," Edward says quickly, and his face brightens as he looks at my brother. "You can have those if you'd like them. I know my dad would've loved to see them being used again, and it's the least I can do after you've helped me pack all of this."

Emmett's whole face lights up. "You sure? No. No, I can't take these."

"Definitely, I'm sure," Edward says, smiling. "Take the holders too. They're all yours."

Emmett hesitates before deciding that Edward's being sincere. "Thanks," he says. When he stands up, he's got a spring in his step, and I can tell that Edward's simple gesture means more to him than he'll ever let on.

I reach over and touch Edward's leg, running my thumb along the soft skin behind his knee, and he way he looks at me makes me feel light and happy. When I turn back to Emmett, he's watching us intently with a grin on his face.

"I'm kind of hungry. Anyone else?" I ask.

"Yeah," Emmett says, patting his stomach. "I could eat something."

We eat sandwiches and drink beers, using a few cardboard boxes as a makeshift table. The three of us joke around with each other before the conversation flows to the fixer-upper that Emmett and Rose just purchased. It needs a lot of work before they can flip it, and it turns out that Edward's quite the handyman. He and Emmett start talking about drywall and framing, and Edward offers to help Emmett get some work done once the move is over and he's all settled in.

I smile as I watch the two of them talk to each other and make plans together. Edward took a big step by incorporating me into his life today, and even though we're sitting in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his things, I'm taking a big step toward letting him into mine.

"Hey," I say to Emmett, when the conversation lulls. "Do you know where Mom is?"

His eyes narrow, and he laughs. "Like, right now? No, why?"

"I tried calling her earlier and she didn't answer. I don't know, she's just usually home on Saturdays."

Edward looks at me, seeming a little surprised, and I smile as I tell him, "I really wanted to talk to her this morning."

He nods, and smiles back. I think he understands.

"Maybe she went out and got herself a life, Bella."

"Don't be a jerk."

He reaches over and taps my knee, letting me know he's playing. He's done that for as long as I can remember. "Did you leave her a message?"

"No. I didn't want to talk to an answering machine."

He drapes his arm around my shoulders, and kisses my temple. "You'll talk to her soon."

"You seem awfully sure about that."

"Eh," he says, shrugging. "I'm Emmett. I know things."

"We should set you up with your own psychic network."

He tosses his bread crust at me, and I laugh as I put it on my plate. "Ready to get back to it?"

I'm surprised at how quickly we're able to work with Emmett helping out, and as the afternoon sun peeks out and moves from the front of the house to the backyard, we finish packing the study and move on to the living room. We're three-quarters of the way finished when the grandfather clock next to the fireplace chimes six times, and Emmett stands to leave.

Edward thanks him, and they give each other this handshake-slash-pat-on-the-back thing, that's some weird guy version of a hug. It's cute the way they've bonded, and I'm grinning as I walk Emmett out the door and onto the front porch.

It's still light out, but the sun is low in the sky, and the blue fades into this brilliant orange. Even though the day started out a bit rainy, it's going to be a beautiful night.

"You guys staying in tonight?" Emmett asks.

"Yeah," I say suspiciously. "Why?"

"No reason." He taps the porch railing as he looks out at the driveway.

"Think we'll be able to get this done tomorrow?"

"Oh, definitely. Early, probably."

Relief rushes over me, loosening my tense muscles. "Good. Em, I can't ever thank you enough for this." I don't know why, but my throat feels tight, and when I look up at him I want to cry.

"We're Swans, right?" he says, wrapping his arms around me, and I squeeze his waist and rest my head against his chest. "We see someone who needs help, we help them."

"I love you." I adore his six-foot-whatever, jort-wearing self. So much.

"I love you, too. I'll see you around seven-thirty, okay?" He pulls away and pats my cheek.

"Seven-thirty it is. I'll make breakfast."

"Sounds like a plan," he says as he takes a few steps down. "Oh." He turns around, twirling his keys on his index finger. "Remember the conversation we had that night you left Alice's house?"

I scrunch my eyebrows together, confused. "Which one?"

"You know, where I did my best Dr. Phil impersonation and made that idiotic comparison of falling in love with someone to finding the perfect car?"

"Yes," I laugh.

"Well," he says, pointing toward the house. "I think you found your Expedition."

"I know." My smile feels mile-wide, because he can see all these things that I'm feeling, and he thinks they're right, too.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Bells."

"Night," I say. I inch back toward the door, and wave at Emmett as he drives away.

Inside, I take a few small trash bags that we'd piled up next to the door, and put them in a bigger one to keep the mess to a minimum. I pick up a few things that were left on the table in the foyer, and I'm startled when Edward says, "Emmett left his wallet here."

Sure enough, he's holding it between his fingers, and it's definitely Emmett's, because he's the only grown man I know who keeps his money in a wallet that's secured with velcro.

"Why would he even take that out?" My brother does some weird things, but he doesn't usually leave his wallet in random places.

"Well, those jorts were kind of tight," Edward says, looking amused. "Maybe he thought if he bent over with this in his pocket, they'd split."

"I guess it's a blessing in disguise then," I laugh, and Edward tosses me the wallet. "I'll call him."

Emmett picks up on the third ring.

"You left your wallet here."

"I did?" he doesn't sound nearly as panicked as he should.

"Yes. Now hurry up and come get it."

"I'm almost to the hotel. Let me change, and then I'll be there."

"Wait, I thought you said you were staying with Steve?"

"Oh...yeah," he says slowly. "That fell through. Me and a few guys got a room close to the bar we're hitting up tonight. It's no big deal."

"You have thirty minutes," I say. Something's up. I can't figure out what it is, and I definitely don't have the patience for it. Not tonight.

"Or what?"

"Or...I'll throw this thing out in the front yard, and you'll have to find it in the dark."

He laughs, because he knows I'd never do such a thing. "If you do anything shady with my wallet, I'll make sure you get a set of Lincoln Logs for your birthday and Christmas every year for the rest of your life."

"Real funny, Em."

"I'll see you soon."

In the living room, Edward's busy stacking books into boxes, and wrapping glass with plastic. There's intent behind his rush that makes me want to rush too, because he knows as well as I do that once this room is finished, we have the rest of the night to ourselves.

I'm packing what's left over on the right side of the room while Edward finishes up on the left, and every once in a while he'll look over while I'm looking at him, the two of us hunched over boxes, grinning at each other like a couple of fools.

When we're done, Edward moves over to one of the windows and takes down a curtain rod, while I put the contents of the drawer of a small corner table into the last box that hasn't been closed up. There's an 8x10 photo in a silver frame that sits on top of the table, and now that I've met Edward's mother and seen pictures of his father, there's no doubt about who's in the picture.

Carlisle and Esme sit on the end of a boat dock, summer whites rolled up to their calves as they dip their feet in lake water. They're leaning toward each other, noses touching as they smile, waiting to kiss. I feel this odd rush of affection for the two of them, and there's this tugging in my chest that makes me want what they had so badly.

"When was this taken?" I ask, holding the frame up so that Edward can see it.

He looks surprised; maybe it's because I'm asking about the picture, or maybe it's because he'd forgotten it exists. "A couple of years before I was born, I think."

I lift the hem of my shirt and wipe the dust off of the glass. "We'll take this over ourselves," I say, reaching over for some bubble wrap. "It shouldn't be put in a box."

I pull off a piece of packing tape to secure the edges, and a bubble pops as I press too hard.

"I love you," Edward says.

He sucks in this short, surprised breath.

All the sound leaves the room, and I swear those words are the only things keeping the world turning. When I look at Edward, his eyes are soft and sincere, and all I can do is stand here staring at him. My ears burn like they've been waiting forever to hear him say that, and my heart jumps and starts in my chest, because he's the one who brought it back to life.

"I think about it all the time now," he continues quickly, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks down at the floor, then back up at me. "Like, at work when you chew on the end of your pen. You only do that with the black ones, did you know that? Or when you leave Post-Its on my monitor reminding me of something you're only going to send an email to remind me about again. It drives me crazy when you do that, and I love it. I keep some of those notes; I have a whole stack of them in my drawer." His words come fast, all connected together in this stream that he doesn't seem to have any control over, and he's wringing his hands, turning his knuckles white.

"You do?" I'm going to cry, my stupid eyes are getting all blurry. I blink and blink, because I don't want a second of this moment to be unclear.

"Sometimes when you smile, I don't think you could look more beautiful, and then somehow you always manage to, all the time; right now, even. I've never known anyone like you. When we talk, I never want to stop talking to you, and when I touch you, I never want to stop doing that, either. I never want to stop doing whatever it is we're doing, and God, I really need to shut up because I'm going to ruin this," he says, letting out a deep breath as he rolls his shoulders.

"You're not ruining anything. It's perfect," I say. _He's_ perfect. Even though he isn't, he _is_, he's just so perfect for me.

"I love you. I'm _in_ love with you. I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure if it was too soon, and I worried that I couldn't be enough for you, and then all the times I almost said it never seemed good enough, like when we were walking through the hospital, or when we're sitting at a stoplight, and you're singing the wrong lyrics to whatever song's on the radio. But you picked up that picture, and I had to tell you; it's like I couldn't say anything else until I said that."

When he stops talking, he takes a deep breath, and his eyes are wide and nervous, waiting for my reaction.

One second there are mountains of boxes between us, and the next there's nothing, and that nothing is the best kind of nothing there's ever been. It frees my arms to wrap around his neck, and my fingers to knit through his hair, and my legs to wrap around his waist as he holds me, and we laugh as I kiss his cheeks, and his neck, and his perfect, perfect lips.

"You don't have to say it back," he says, whispering into my ear.

I put my hands on either side of his face, and my thumbs gently slide across his cheeks as his eyes meet mine. They're so green, with these little flecks of gold that I could get lost in forever. I love his eyes; I love the way I feel when they look at me.

I love his arms; they hold so much. And his shoulders are strong, too. I love his heart, how big it is. The way it beats so fast when I drag my tongue across his skin, and how it only wants the best for me, no matter what. I love the way his pulse feels under my fingers when I touch him.

I love his mouth, and how his lips know just how to kiss me. I love the way they move when he tells me such sweet things. Those lips give sound to words that I want to wrap myself up in; they're the place where all the thoughts in his brilliant, overworked mind and all the worries of his kind soul take shape.

I love his words, and his mind, and his thoughts, and his worries. And I love that even though we're standing in a room full of someone else's history, we're making a bit of our own.

"Don't ever think that you're not enough for me, Edward," I say, brushing his hair back from is forehead. I love his hair. I love his forehead. "You're everything, please believe that."

He smiles, and kisses the inside of my wrist.

"We both have broken parts, but they fit perfectly together, yours and mine. And you make the rest of me the best I can be."

I close my eyes, and I kiss him so softly.

"I need you," I whisper.

_Kiss_.

"I _want _you."

_Kiss._

"And I won't ever love anyone as much as I love you."

He smiles wide as our lips press together, and our noses scrunch together, and our chests rise and fall together, and we're just so _together_, together.

"You love me," he says in this low, teasing rumble. "You _looooove_ me."

"Yes, I _looooove_ you, you goof."

We're kissing, kissing, kissing, and we laugh these breathy little laughs every time our lips part. It's been so long since I've felt so sweet and loved and alive. It's the best day, filled with the prettiest words, spoken by the person who makes me feel like anything could happen and I'd be okay as long as he's with me.

I could never ask for anything more than this.

I don't want to tear myself away from Edward, and my heart pounds in my chest as my lips refuse to leave his skin. His neck, specifically.

"I think your brother's here," he says in this dreamy kind of voice. He doesn't want my lips going anywhere, either.

"No."

Edward laughs. "Can't you hear that knocking?"

I hear it, but I lie. "I think it's just your heart beating 'Bel-_la_, Bel-_la_.'"

"No, that's not it," he says, kissing my collarbone. "I've been hearing that for a while. I'm used to it by now."

He's so sneaky and unfair the way he turns the tables on me, with his soft lips and words like fire that make my insides melt.

"I'll give him his wallet," Edward says, probably because of the dopey look on my face. He makes my knees all wobbly, and I don't even know if I could make it to the door.

"No, don't go," I reply, dragging my lips across that spot below his ear that makes him shudder. "You have to take me upstairs and…start things."

His breath fans my neck as he kisses his way up to my lips, and he groans as the doorbell breaks his stride. "Hold that thought."

The doorbell rings again as we're untangling ourselves, and Edward's eyebrows scrunch up in irritation. "This is the _second _time. Does he have some sort of radar that tells him when we're-"

_Another_ ring.

"Coming!" he shouts. He shoots an angry glance in the direction of our interruption, and I let out a little laugh. "What?"

"Interesting word combination," I say. He's so cute when he's worked up like this, and it takes the edge off my frustration.

His face softens as he gives me a quick kiss. "I'll be right back."

I sit on the edge of the sofa and run the tip of my finger across my lips, smiling because he loves me, he loves me, he_ loves_ me. And after a couple of too-long minutes tick by without any sign of him, I stand up to go see where he is.

"Bella."

When I turn, Edward's standing in the doorway, looking unsure as he rubs his palms together.

"Is he being a pain? I'll take care of him."

"No," Edward says, shaking his head. "Emmett's out in his car."

"What?" I'm confused. "Then who's at the door?"

He takes a deep breath. "It's your mother."

All the air rushes out of my chest, and my heartbeat is thrumming in my ears. Why now, here? How did she know?

And then it dawns on me. _Emmett_. I knew he was up to something. I _knew _it. White hot anger courses through me as I realize that he left his wallet here on purpose. It's plain as day, I've just been too distracted to put it together.

All the certainty I felt about talking to Mom earlier sinks to the pit of my stomach, heavy as lead. But she's never come to me before, and that makes me curious. Why is she coming to _me_?

"She said she can only stay a minute." He takes a tentative step forward. "If you want her to leave, I'll make her leave. You don't even have to go out there if you don't want to. But you said earlier that you wanted to talk to her, so I...I just wanted to ask before I told her no."

"What does she want?"

"She wants to talk to you," he says, threading his fingers between mine until our hands are locked together. "And I think you might want to hear what she has to say."


	16. Gravity

**Chapter Sixteen  


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**_**Gravity:**__ Gravitation, or gravity, is one of the four fundamental interactions of nature, and is the means by which objects with mass attract one another._**  


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**

_Mom's_ here.

Mom's _here_.

The thought bounces around inside of me, making my heart thump violently in my throat, sending my stomach plummeting down to my toes. And then I'm moving. I'm following Edward, or maybe he's following me, I don't know; I'm too focused on getting to the front door.

What I do know is that I'm slipping, even though one foot steps steadily in front of the other, and I'm falling, even though I'm walking on solid ground. I can't breathe, even though my lungs expand and contract, and I can't believe my mother is here, even though I clearly see her.

I'm falling, falling, falling, and she's just standing at the front door like this isn't something huge, something different, something that hasn't ever happened before. As usual, I'm the frazzled one, hurtling toward her in a mess of nerves and angst. Every inch of me feels unsettled, and this wave of anticipation makes my skin buzz as I trip, and fall, and hurtle, and plummet.

And just when I think I'm going to crash, Edward squeezes my hand. He looks over, smiles reassuringly, and everything inside of me slows and settles back into its regular rhythm and place. It's like he's pulled the ripcord of some imaginary parachute, and now there's calm where there was chaos.

His thumb glides across the side of my wrist as we come to a stop, and he stands so the front of my left arm rests against the back of his right; beside me, but just far enough in front to make me feel protected. I love that he wants to be a buffer between Mom and me, but I hate that I feel like I need one.

I take a deep breath, and close my eyes. When I open them, I really _look_ at my mother for the first time tonight.

She's wearing a dress.

It's a simple black A-line, one that she's had since I was a kid. I remember back then, when she and Dad would go out to dinner at the Lodge. She wore that dress along with Nana Swan's pearls, and she twisted her hair up in a way that made her look like a princess. I would lay on my bed long after I was supposed to be asleep, and wait for the bright beam of headlights to shine on my wall. A car door would shut, then another, and I'd creep up to the window and watch as my father twirled her on their way up the front steps. She'd sneak into my room while I pretended to sleep, and I'd try not to let my eyelids flutter as she kissed me goodnight. She smelled like lavender then, and I'd always wake up the next morning with a smudge of red lipstick on my cheek.

Now, years later, she's still wearing that same color lipstick, that same perfume, that same string of pearls. And even though she looks identical to the Mom I remember, she's not even remotely the same.

There are so many questions I want to ask her, but only one finds its way to my lips.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well," she begins, taking a deep breath. "Your brother and I are going to the ballet tonight."

Mom and Emmett go to the ballet every year. It's something Emmett's mom liked to do when she was alive; he takes my mother so that they can have time together to remember her, and oh, man I feel like an ass because I completely forgot. Of _course_ it would be on the same weekend Edward needed help packing, and of _course_ my brother would offer to do one thing, even if it meant he'd sacrifice time to do the other.

The twinge of anger I feel toward Emmett lessens just a little.

"Yesterday, Em said he wanted to come to town early this morning, and asked me to meet him tonight. I asked him why," she says, turning back toward the truck, where I can kind of make out Emmett's profile in the driver's seat. "You know how he is when he's put on the spot."

He's a bumbling, fumbling mess of honesty, that's how he is. Freaking Emmett. What did he tell her? Why didn't he tell me what he told her? "Yeah, I know."

"He said you were helping your friend move, and-"

"Edward's my _boy_friend, Mom." The words come out lightning quick; I don't even have a chance to think them through before—BAM!—they strike.

"I know," she says quietly as she looks at Edward, then down at my hand twined with his. "But I didn't think you wanted me to."

I expect some snide comment, or a raised brow, or _some_thing, but she doesn't do any of that. The unease I thought I'd gotten rid of earlier creeps back in, crawls over my skin and puts me on edge. Being able to anticipate her reaction usually makes me feel like I've got some control over the situation, but I've got nothing. Nothing at all.

No, that's not true. I have Edward. And his hand, which I squeeze.

"I wanted to come with him this morning, but..." she looks back at Emmett again, "we got into a little fight. He promised to bring me over tonight as long as I made it quick and kept things pleasant."

"What did you want to come here for?" I sound a little rude, but I'm having trouble wrapping my brain around the fact that not only would Mom want to come here to see me, but that she'd get into a fight with my brother to do it.

"Well," she begins, her eyes wide, "I've been wanting to call you, but I thought I should do this in person, and wasn't sure if you'd want to see me."

"So you just show up and ambush me?"

"I didn't mean it like that," she says, shaking her head. I've never seen her so jittery and unsure of herself. "I have something. I..." She looks at Edward, then down at her feet, where a cardboard box rests on the threshold.

"I brought this for you," Mom says as she bends down to pick up the box. She grips the sides, and ever the gentleman, Edward leans forward to take it from her. "I mean, it's for him. For you, Edward."

She knows Edward's my boyfriend, she's being nice to him,_ and_ she brought him something, too? I don't understand what's going on. Did I fall and hit my head?

"There are a few casseroles in there," Mom says, tapping on the edge of the box. Her voice is kind of breathy, and her hands are shaking. "I thought it'd be nice for you to have some home-cooked meals while you were between places, and these are some of Bella's favorites. I...I put Post-Its with heating directions on them on the top of each one. You can keep them in the freezer until you're ready to bake them."

My stomach sinks as I look at Edward, and I think of all the boxes full of food just like this one he held after his father died. Of course Emmett didn't tell her that Edward hates casseroles and charity, because he doesn't know that. He just spouts off with things that aren't his business to spout off with, and I have to take a deep breath before I get worked up. She's just trying to be nice. She's never nice, but she's _trying_. I think.

"Thank you, Mrs. Swan," Edward says, sounding so sweet and sincere as he flashes a smile. "I'll go put these in the kitchen." His words come out like a question, like he's asking me if it's okay for him to leave me. I love him for it, and want to crawl into that box so he can take me with him.

But I can't. And I can't keep asking him to face his fears if I'm not willing to face my own.

"I'll be right in there." He nods to his left. "Just in case."

"Okay."

I turn back toward my mother, my eyes narrowed. I don't trust her at all.

"When Emmett told me he was coming here, I had to come, too," she says, wringing her hands together. "And I knew this way you wouldn't refuse."

Anger rolls across my skin. "Shouldn't seeing you be my choice? You're always trying to trick me into something, Mom. It's gotta be your way, or-"

"I'm making an effort here, Bella," Mom says, her voice tight. "Are you going to let me?"

I rub my forehead with the palm of my hand, hoping it'll quiet this confusion, but it swirls around me everywhere, knocking against my insides, making me unsteady.

"I don't want to fight with you."

"I don't want to fight either." She's so calm that I almost believe her.

"I don't understand what you're doing. You don't talk to me for so long, and then you make food for my boyfriend who you've never even met, and Emmett told you things that weren't his business to tell, and now you're here, and I don't understand."

She looks at me for a moment before she reaches into her purse and pulls out a small book. I recognize it immediately; this one and countless others like it filled my days when I was younger.

"Do you remember this?" she asks, holding it out to me.

Its cover is made out of one of the dilapidated old file folders Dad used to bring home from the station. I would write story after story on old copy paper, then bind the pages together with Mom's yarn. I'd read them to her at night when she tucked me into bed. She lost interest as I got older, and encouraged me to spend my time doing more productive things. Eventually I stopped reading them to her, even though I continued writing until I'd told all the stories I had to tell.

"Yes." I run my fingers along the edge. "I remember."

"Your father likes to get in my ear, especially where you're concerned. You've got a one-person fan club in that man. He thinks I can't—well, that I_ won't_ see you for who you really are. I know I'm stubborn, Bella." She takes the book and flips through it, smiling as she moves from page to page. "And when you live in an empty house, you have a lot of time to think. Sometimes I wonder..."

She looks at me, eyes red, like she might be starting to cry.

"I was cleaning out the hall closet the other day, and I came across some of these," she says, tapping her finger against the edge of the book. "I was surprised at how many I remembered. But what surprised me more was how many I didn't."

Tears spill over her cheeks, but I don't let mine fall. I fight them with everything I've got.

"And, what makes me sad is that I can't remember if you stopped telling me these stories, or if I just stopped listening to them."

I cross my arms over my chest and look down, swallowing against the lump in my throat. I don't want to cry in front of her; I've given her enough of my tears.

"Does it even matter, Mom?" I whisper, dragging the toe of my sneaker across the edge of the welcome mat.

She smiles this corner-of-her-eyes-crinkling smile. "Yes," she says with an unsteady voice, "it does."

I want to believe that it matters, that these tears are real, that her motive is a good one. Everything inside me screams to be careful, but I have to take this chance. If I don't, I'll never know if things between us could be different.

"I stopped telling them _because_ you stopped listening. You stopped listening to me a long time ago." I've told her this so many times before, but maybe she's finally ready to hear it. "You never let me just..._be_. Never let me imagine or dream."

She nods, full-on crying now, and she looks at me for the longest time. Her eyes are so blue. I don't think I've ever noticed how pretty they are, because I can't remember the last time she looked at me like this. Not through me or around me, but _at_ me, like she really sees.

"All I ever wanted was for you to be happy."

"You always say that, but the problem is that you don't believe me when I tell you I'm _not _happy." This is the time when our conversation would normally turn into a fight, where calm words would grow angry and crash against each other into a fury.

But that doesn't happen. Mom's eyebrows scrunch together and her breathing sputters as she reaches up to cup the side of my face. She gives me a kiss, pressing her cheek against mine for seconds or minutes, I don't know.

"I should go," she says, sniffling. and then she turns and hurries down the steps.

Wait, she's leaving, just like that? She just comes here, leaves me her little seed of regret, and what, I get to take care of it? Let it grow? Die? I can't make that decision in the time it takes for her to walk across the yard and get back into Emmett's truck. But as I watch her move further and further away, I think about car accidents, and hospital beds, and police knocking on my door in the middle of the night to change my life forever.

I don't want to have Edward's regrets, and I don't want any more of my own, either.

I run, my feet clomping across Edward's perfectly trimmed grass.

"Mom, wait!"

She barely has time to turn around before I wrap my arms around that A-line dress, press my palm against the clasp of Nana's pearls, and smell that lavender smell that's just so _her_. I squeeze tight, because I know the woman who used to leave smudges of red lipstick on my cheek from goodnight kisses is still in there somewhere; I caught a glimpse of her up on the porch. I _have _to hold onto her.

"I love you," I tell her. "And thank you for thinking of Edward."

When she pulls away, she swipes at her cheeks, smiling. "Will you come home?" she asks, her voice shaky. "I miss you. Next weekend, come home."

"I can't next weekend, Mom."

"The weekend after?" She looks hopeful. Undeterred.

The memories of my past visits make my stomach flip, but I can't say no. I agree to make the trip home weekend after next, and she waves at me once she's in the truck and buckled up. Emmett gets out, right as I turn to walk away. Knowing me as well as he does, he keeps his distance.

"She's leaving first thing in the morning," he says, watching the tip of his shoe flatten a patch of grass.

"Okay."

"I know you're mad, Bells, I don't blame you."

"I'm not mad," I sigh, looking out at the road. "I'm just disappointed. It's not like you to trick me, Emmett. You're usually watching my back, not sneaking around behind it."

His eyes narrow, and he shoves his hands in his pockets. "I was going to tell you," he explains, "but when you said you wanted to talk to Mom, I thought it might be a nice surprise. I...I'm sorry, I didn't think."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow." There's not time to get into this in the middle of Edward's front yard.

"Okay," he says. "I love you."

He holds out his hand, fingers straight, thumb up. Reluctantly, I slap it, and I can't help but smile as our fingers pull against each other, and our pinkies twist together and swing, as we do the secret handshake Emmett taught me when I was five.

"I love you, too," I tell him, before he climbs back in the driver's seat and shuts the door.

I trudge up onto the steps as they drive away, and once Em's truck disappears down the road, I plop down on the swing. Even though this swing is on a porch hours away from the one I grew up with, the slow back and forth comforts me. The wind brushes through my hair the same way it does in Forks, and the creaking chains sound the same in Seattle as they do all the way back home.

There's always this exhaustion that settles over me after I talk with my mother, like I've run ten marathons, and then cried for hours. Sometimes I _do_ cry for hours, but I think I'm too confused to do that now. Seeing Esme this morning made me desperate to call Mom, so why is it so hard for me to believe that seeing some part of my childhood that I locked her out of could do the same thing for her? Ugh, just when I'm used to being thrown for one loop, Mom throws me for another. Never fails.

"Bella?" Edward asks quietly as he steps out the front door. "You okay?"

I nod, but I don't say anything; I'm scared if I talk the tears will come. I drag my feet to stop the swing, and when Edward sits down, he wraps his arm around me, pulling me to him. He's so warm and familiar, someone whose intentions I never question. I close my eyes, breathing in the clean smell of his t-shirt, and I rest my cheek against that perfect spot on his shoulder.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" He presses his lips against my forehead, and I take a minute to try to find the right words.

"It's just...I've waited for so long for her to do something like this, you know? Not because she had to, or because I asked her, but because she _wanted_ to. Now she has, and...it doesn't feel at all like I thought it would."

"What did you think it would feel like?" His voice is soft, and his fingertips sweep around the bend in my knee, making my skin tingle.

"There's this empty spot inside of me that's hers to fill up, and for every little bit she gives me, she takes away twice as much. I just want more and more, but it's always empty, and…what if that's all she has to give me? What if that's all I get?" I shake my head, because I can't quite explain it right. "I know that doesn't make sense."

"For every compliment there are two criticisms, and each answer leaves you with two more questions. It makes sense," he says, his voice a hum against my skin. I should've known he'd understand, because he has empty spots, too.

"She came across some of my things when she was cleaning out a closet, and she said they made her wonder if she knows who I really am. If somewhere along the line she just stopped listening to me."

"Did she?"

"Yes," I whisper. "She hasn't listened to me for a long, long time. But what would make her think about that now? Just coming across some old books?"

Edward takes a deep breath, and sighs. "When I visit my mom, sometimes she starts asking me things about the way she acted after Dad died. I figured she just blocked it out, but I think that's the kind of thing you have to be ready to think about. When you're alone, there's nothing to do but think. You can't get away from those dark things you've tucked away in your mind."

Spending some time alone did wonders for me after I broke up with Jake. Maybe Edward's right.

"I'd like to believe that all it took was some quiet and a box of old stuff from the closet, but I don't know," I say, wrapping my fingers around his. "Life would be so much less confusing if everything worked out like it does in the movies."

He laughs over the creaky chains as we swing and sway. "How so?"

"You know, two people are separated for years over some misunderstanding, and then there's a grand gesture, and the world is right again. They have a good cry, then walk off into the sunset or whatever. It'd be nice if that worked in real life. If one big effort was enough to heal everything."

"That would just be a Band-Aid, Bella. Not real."

"I know that." Mom and I, we've had enough Band-Aids. "But it'd be nice if it was."

"I guess I can't argue against two-hour conflict resolution," he says, crooking his arm around my neck and pulling me close. I can feel his smile as he presses his lips against my forehead. "In movie time, some rich relative would've left me a buttload of money in his will by now."

"Or you would've found a treasure map while you were cleaning out your attic, like they did in _The Goonies_."

"Well, I'm pretty sure I'd kick ass at playing an organ made out of bones, and I do know my way around a pirate ship."

"What _would _we do with all that rich stuff?"

"I'd get the house back. You'd open a bakery, and spend all day making sprinkled donuts. We'd put a sign over your register that reads, 'no fives accepted,' and you'd set everything at weird prices so you'd never have to deal with pennies."

Only Edward can fish me out of my post-Mom sea of depression by making jokes about classic 80's movies and Abraham Lincoln. I brush my lips against his, light and sweet, because that's how he makes me feel.

"What would you do?"

"I'd be your bookkeeper, of course," he says, the most obvious thing.

"That sounds like a nice life."

"The best."

The steady, high-pitched squeak of the swing's rusty chains adds background noise to our quiet, and I settle in the crook of Edward's arm as I close my eyes and let myself fall into our daydreams of saved houses and bakeries, all our worries washed away. And it's nice to pretend, but fantasy has a way of shining a harsh light on reality.

"When I told her I loved her, she didn't say it back." I break a little when the words come out; just a tiny crack in my voice that gives a sound to all the other cracks inside of me that Edward can't see.

He holds me close, _so_ tight, and I know he wants to tell me how much _he_ loves me. And his love is the most beautiful, wonderful thing, but it's not the same. He knows it can never be the same.

There's something about him though, the way he's holding me, or that he's just sitting on his front porch talking me through all this that makes me _want _to believe this is a turning point. With him I feel safe enough to trust it, to take some leap of faith and hope that the ten minutes Mom and I spent together today will turn into ten hours when I go to visit Forks, and those hours will bleed into different kinds of days for the two of us in the future.

"She came here though, right? Maybe she understands now," I say hopefully. "She made those casseroles for you, and that's something. Maybe...maybe if that's all she can give me, it'll have to be enough."

He slides his finger under my chin, gently lifting my head until my gaze meets his. "Don't you ever settle, Bella. Not for that. And," he says, leaning close, his lips brushing against my ear, "she didn't make that food for me."

I search his eyes, all yellow-flecked green and full of sincerity, and I decide that he might be onto something. Maybe it was easier for Mom to reach out to me through Edward, especially after all that happened between us after my breakup with Jake. Maybe this _is_ real.

"What did she say to you when you answered the door?"

"She told me that she missed you, and she wanted to see you." He sighs as he rubs his chin, his face unsure. "When she asked if she could talk to you for a second, maybe I should've told her no."

"I'm glad you didn't," I say, and do my best to muster a smile. There's a long broken thread on the hem of his shirt, and I wrap it around my knuckle, enjoying the sharp way it presses into my skin. "She wants me to come home. I haven't been back there since our fight."

"Are you gonna go?"

"I guess. Yes. I mean, I can't stay away forever, and she seemed sincere about wanting me to visit."

"Is she not usually?'

"I don't know," I sigh. "I used to think she was just more comfortable manipulating me on her home turf."

"What do you mean?" His eyebrows scrunch up in confusion.

"I told you what happened with Jake right after our breakup. I show up for dinner and I have no idea she's invited him, planning to get us back together. It's like she's got some grand master plan for my life, and she doesn't let me have a say, like I can't be trusted with my own future."

"She's your mother," he says. "She must mean well." I envy him; he doesn't have to second-guess every word that comes out of Esme's mouth.

"I'm so _tired_ of people telling me that. Intentions don't mean anything when they make you feel like shit."

"You know I didn't mean it like that," he says quietly, squeezing my knee. "I'm on your side, Bella."

I take a deep breath, and close my eyes. "I know you are."

"I'll go to Forks with you, and if things get bad, I'll take you home, no questions asked. No tricks, no manipulation. I won't let that happen."

The firmness of his voice, the absolute authority in it, makes me feel brave enough to face a house full of my mother and ten of her clones. "You would do that?"

"You know I'd do anything for you," he says, smiling.

"I'm not sure if you can handle it, city boy. There are wildcats and wolves roaming around up there," I say, peppering his lips with quick, playful kisses. "And some mean-spirited Swans, too."

He shrugs, laughing. "Sounds like my kind of weekend. Maybe we can get drunk off of moonshine after dinner and go cow tipping."

The first real laugh I've managed since the doorbell rang bubbles up in my chest, relieving all this tension I've been holding inside. I love how Edward makes even the heaviest things feel weightless, like he'd brush them away if I asked him to.

I tell him I love him as he kisses the past hour away, each brush of his lips pushing it farther and farther into some dark corner where I won't have to think about it anymore tonight. They're slow, sweet, deep kisses, the kind that make our arms and lips and chests melt together until we're just one complete thing, oblivious to the rest of the world around us.

When we finally break apart, we're both swollen-lipped and breathless, and Edward smiles as he slides his hand up the side of my leg until it reaches the hem of my shorts. Just his touch on that not-so-private spot makes my heart pound, and I'm a little dizzy thinking of how I'll feel when that hand finds the places that no one else sees.

And it'll be soon. _So_ soon.

"Come here," he says, gently swinging my legs off of his lap. Once we're inside, Edward presses the door shut, and locks the lock. He moves so close his voice is barely a whisper, and I almost can't hear it over the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. "I don't care who knocks on that door. No one's interrupting us tonight."

My legs don't even have time to get weak before he takes my hand and leads me up the stairs with a sly smile, looking back at me as he moves. He's slow about it; one step at a time, one look at a time, one heartbeat at a time.

When we reach the top, I see a light shining at the end of the hallway, and he doesn't stop to show me any of the rooms we pass; he's a man on a mission. We come to a stop at the last door, and I walk inside, because this room is _Edward_. If I were given a hundred rooms to choose from, I'd know this was his. It _feels_ like him. It _smells_ like him. It's like putting my finger on the pulse of his childhood as I look at the Mariners posters on the wall, and the tops of golden trophies that stick out of the boxes that clutter the floor on the left side of the room.

Next to the boxes, an empty bookshelf hugs the wall, to the right of which is a sliding glass door that leads out to a balcony. A huge bed crowds the right side of the room, occupying the place where a smaller bed probably used to be. The tan sheets and rich brown comforter look strange and sophisticated against the light blue walls.

He's a grown man living in a young man's space.

I'm drawn like a magnet to all of his things, and I can't stop myself from walking over to the dresser, and peering into a box that's full of Little League team pictures. He played baseball and soccer, and judging by the medals that are wrapped around the corner of one of the frames, he was quite good. And he was definitely cute in his too-big hat and slightly ill-fitting uniforms.

"A jock, huh?" I bite my lip through my smile as I look over at Edward, who's leaning against the doorframe.

"Yep."

I drag my fingers along the top of the dresser as I move, wanting to absorb every little bit of his space. Then I stop in front of the sliding glass door, noticing how pretty dusk looks from here, the way the moon peeks out from behind the clouds, turning the world into a painting.

The view is so clear, I can see why he liked to stargaze out there when he was younger.

"Is it what you expected?" His voice is quiet, like his whole world hangs on my answer.

"Yes. But I thought for sure you would've had a map of the constellations in here."

His expression is tender as he takes a step forward, pushes the door shut, and points to the National Geographic poster of the heavens that hangs on the back.

Something about that poster makes me feel so wrapped up in him. I think it's the knowing it would be here, being able to read him the way that I can, that makes me feel so warm. That warmth gets hotter when his eyes meet mine, all green fire and intensity, like he's making a list of all the things he wants to do to me now that he's got me in here.

I hope it's a long list, because suddenly I don't care about trophies or pictures or posters anymore. All I want are those intense, fiery eyes looking into mine as we lie on his bed, touching and kissing as our bodies move together, as close as we can ever be.

He crooks his finger at me, and god it's sexy; the way he grins when I start walking, all cocky and cute because he _knows_ that look makes my muscles melt and my knees wobble. Then he reaches over and turns off the light switch, and I'm captivated by the faint glow in the room, soft as candlelight.

"Stars," I breathe, grinning.

I turn around and see them everywhere, glow-in-the-dark plastic stuck to the ceiling in these great, swirling patterns that stretch down onto the wall in some spots.

The floor squeaks as Edward takes a step behind me, and I keep myself from looking back. I want to turn to see him, but I love the anticipation, the not knowing. The wondering when he'll reach out for me, the faint memory of his touch when his hands aren't on me, and the sweet satisfaction when they finally are.

His lips warm my skin first, pressed to the back of my neck, and then his hands slide across my waist. I close my eyes, because I wasn't sure we'd ever get here, to this sweet second where he's _finally _let me in. In his room, in his heart, in his life. And there's no more hiding, no more secrets. Just us.

He puts his hand on the side of my face when I turn to him, and I lean into his touch. His thumb skims across my cheek, and his eyes are so beautiful and content.

"No one knows me like you do," he whispers.

I push up on the tips of my toes and kiss him, to seal those words on his lips with mine, to make them part of the two of us, because I don't want a single person on this earth to know his mind, his heart, or his body as well as I do. He's my favorite book; I'll read him forever and still not know enough, and when I reach the end I'll keep looking for more pages to turn.

And with my lips close to his so he can feel what I say, I tell him, "No one loves me like you do."

I'm not just talking about the way he always makes my stomach flip, or my knees feel like jelly. I know how special it is to find someone who grounds you _and_ makes you fly, someone who pushes you _and_ catches you, someone who calms your heart and unravels your body.

He _is_ that someone for me.

Edward's lips find mine with slow, wonderful brushes and licks, and his fingers slide down my arms, giving me goosebumps as they tickle, making promises to my skin. His breaths are low and shallow, small puffs of air against my cheek, and I wonder if every bit of him feels as alive as I do. I gently tug the hair at the nape of his neck because I know that drives him crazy, and the tips of his fingers trace little circles on the small of my back, because..._god_, he knows all the little combinations that unlock me and open me up.

The smooth slide of his hands as they wind up the backs of my thighs makes my breath catch, and I hold on tight when he picks me up, easy, like I'm the lightest thing. He lets out this soft grunt when my legs squeeze around his waist, and the way his fingers press into my skin, all possessive and protective, sets off this buzz across my body. His eyes are hazy and hooded as they look into mine, and I cup the sides of his face because I _have _to taste him. My lips can't resist kissing him, and they can't resist telling him how much I love him between those kisses. My fingers can't resist twisting his hair between them, and my body can't resist wrapping around his until we're so close there's not room for a breath between us.

_I_ can't resist _him_. I never could.

"I've got you," he says, low and breathy, his stubble grazing my cheek as his lips brush against my ear.

He has no idea how much he's got me.

When he sets me down, my knees come to rest on soft mattress, and I reach out, hooking my fingers around the waistband of his shorts. He crawls forward and I fall back, pillows cradling my head as his hands press into the bed, anchoring strong arms that hold him up above me. My fingertips slide across his smooth back, along the dip of his spine, and he kisses me, soft and slow and deep, the best kinds of kisses. Kisses that make me press up against him, back and forth, and I love the quiet noises he makes, the quick heat of his breath on my skin, the way his eyes flutter and his head drops, just a little, when I move my hips like this.

Edward's tongue drags along his bottom lip as he wraps his arm around my waist, pulling us both up onto our knees. There's a light tease, the soft brush of the insides of his wrists sweeping across the sides of my body as he lifts my shirt up, up, up, and my arms follow his lead, stretching high above my head. Once I'm free, he tosses that tank top somewhere on the floor behind us, and my hands shake as I reach for the bottom of his shirt, fumbling, because I'm too keyed-up and I can't be sexy about it the way he was. He laughs a little as he peels his shirt off, the collar leaving his hair all cute-crazy in its wake.

He slides his fingers along the straps of my bra, and some breathy kind of moan finds its way out of me as his tongue traces the edge of white cotton, slow and wet, and the most perfect thing ever until his lips skim across the cup, and _oh _the sweet pressure of his teeth as he nips at my skin through the fabric is..._is_...

Finally he stops teasing, and his skin tickles mine as he reaches back and unclasps, making the bra slide down my shoulders, admitting defeat. I toss it aside, the stupid thing, and Edward cups my breasts, gently kneading as he lightly slips his thumbs across my nipples. His lips are next, then his tongue, and I arch my back, pressing against him, because he makes me feel like even though he's seen all of this before, touched it and tasted it, he'll always want more.

His warm hands drift up, sliding over my shoulders to the sides of my neck, and he cups my face. And_ oh_, there's my dimple, that cute little period at the end of his smile. I _have_ to lean forward and kiss it, punctuating some calm, peaceful moment in the middle of all this fire. Then he reaches back and gently tugs on the elastic that's holding my ponytail, pulling it down until my hair's free and draped over my right shoulder, and he twists the ends around his fingers as he leans in, covering my neck and collarbone with slick tongue and warm kisses.

The sweet sweep of his lips sparks this buzz that spreads from his mouth all the way to my toes, vibrating beneath my skin, making my hands shake, but somehow I manage to steady them as I unbutton and unzip his shorts. A sigh follows my fingers as they run along the waistband of his boxers, then a sharp breath as my hand dips down, tracing the outline of hard body under soft cotton. Edward buries his head against my neck, his heavy breaths cooling his kisses as he pushes against my hand, and how have I _never _known that touching someone can feel just as good as being touched?

A gentle twist of my wrist nearly undoes him, and next thing I know we're all quick, wet kisses, and frantic hands, trying to push the rest of our clothes out of the way. The stubble peppering his jaw is rough on my lips as he opens his nightstand drawer, and I slide my hands up and down his arms as he pulls out cardboard and rips through foil. Once we're safe, we sink into the mattress, his hand on the small of my back, our chests pressed together as our hearts thump wildly inside.

The tips of his fingers skim my lips; first the top, then the bottom, and his hand weaves through my hair to cradle the back of my neck, sending this warm rush down my spine. His forehead rests against mine, and our top lips touch as I breathe him and he breathes me. There's this pulse in the air, rushing through my ears, rolling across my skin, and I wrap my legs around the backs of his because I want to be so close to him that I can't tell where I end and he begins.

Those grassy green eyes are hooded and all mine as he pushes into me and starts to move, and _oh_, we rock against each other, so quiet and slow and perfect. No words, just ragged breaths, all uneven and deep and hot. No conversation, just the way our bodies move together, and the sound of skin sliding against skin, each soft kiss melting into another, and each touch making me want a thousand more.

God, I want _more_.

More of his lips, more of his tongue, more of his hands. More of his breath, more of his hair between my fingers, more of his body pressing into mine. More of that look in his eyes, more of this soft pull inside me, more of this feeling, more of this love, more of _him_. More hours of this night, so that it stretches on forever, and we'll stay safe beneath this dream sky and its stars.

How have I ever felt anything before _this_? I'll never get enough of it.

Edward's lips tickle my neck as he hooks his arms beneath me, holding me close as our bodies move faster. The slow was wonderful, the best; it made me feel loved and wanted and beautiful. But this, this does all of that, and makes me feel sexy and alive, too. I love the way his eyes shut when I push up against him, and how they look at me with such fire when my fingers press into his back. We're all soft, low grunts, and mouths and tongues on skin as we give in to this frenzy inside of us, and my chest, my hips, my _everything_ gets swept up in this uncontrollable swell towards him.

He lets out this tight, quick groan as I wrap my legs around his waist, desperate for him anchor me down. I'm so light, head to toe, and it's all him, _him, _his body, what it does to mine, how he makes me feel_. _It's some flurry of physical and emotional that swirls around and around inside of me, a rush that only he can stir up and turn wild.

I press my forehead against his, gripping his neck as this beautiful, tingling rush pushes out from the center of me, through my arms and legs to my fingertips, where it fizzles like the tail of a firework, only to bounce back and restart over and over again. Not long after, he pulls me close to him, his back arching up as his eyes squeeze shut, and I kiss away all the sounds he makes, desperate to keep them for myself.

We hold each other as our breathing slows, and Edward rolls over, pulling me on top of him. We lie, chest against chest, with my legs curled around his like pretzels. His fingers trace up and down my spine in one long, lovely, repetitive circuit, like waves against the beach at high tide. I rise and fall with each breath he takes, and as I close my eyes I wish I could disappear into him, like water in the sand.

Once our breaths and heartbeats steady, Edward gets them all riled up again by twisting his fingers in my hair as he kisses me, slow at first, then hectic and hot. Our fingers thread together as I sink down onto him, and it's different this time; still tender, but impatient. His lips taste sweet when I kiss him, and my hands press into his pillow as his hips press up into me, making all of my muscles tense in the best way. I love, _love_ the feel of him, his mouth and his body, and I get lost in both when he sits up and wraps his arms around me, holding me close as we both stretch and sigh, clinging to one another, boneless and breathless.

When we finally get out of the bed, we get into the shower, where we do dirty things as we clean each other, laughing, and kissing, and touching under the steamy hot water. And after, when we're both wrapped in soft cotton towels, Edward sits on the edge of the tub and watches me blow dry my hair. Once I'm done, I turn the hot air on him, and he closes his eyes, smiling as I run my fingers through his hair, making it stick up in crazy tufts.

"I used to imagine what you looked like when you got out of the shower," he says as I wind the cord around the handle of the dryer.

"You did?"

"Well, not just getting out of the shower, to be honest." He runs the backs of his fingers across his chin as he looks at me, eyes all hooded and heavy. The blaze in them makes me want to rip that towel off his waist and press his body against the blue shower tiles behind him. "I just thought about you naked a lot."

I laugh, trying to quiet the butterflies in my stomach, even though it's nice to know he can still bring them out after all the things he's made me feel tonight.

"Does the reality measure up?"

"Not even close," he says as the corner of his mouth lifts up into a grin. "My imagination is crap, actually. Like comparing a Polaroid to HD."

"Well, now that you've seen me, what ever will you wonder about now?"

"Oh, I'm wondering lots of things." He licks his lips, and all I can do is watch the wet trail of his tongue as it drags across pink skin. I have to grip the counter, because he knows what that tongue and those lips do to me.

"Like what?" My voice is shaky, and he lets out this cocky little breath of a laugh.

"Like..." he says, gently tugging on my hand and pulling me close to him. He runs his thumb along the edge of the towel, skimming the skin just above my knee with the sweetest tickle as he wraps the corners between his fingers. "Like if you'd blush if I pulled on this."

Pull on it._ Please_ pull on it.

"Or..." He gets this mischievous glint in his eyes as he lifts my left leg up, bringing my foot to rest on the edge of the tub next him. "What kind of sounds you'd make if I touched you here." My breath catches as he runs the back of his fingers along the inside of my thigh, and even though this man has been inside of me, that little tickle still makes me blush. Then his lips follow his fingers, and all I can do is put one hand on the wall to keep myself steady. "Or kissed you here."

"Or how far could I make your back arch off the bed if I put my mouth _here_ and just...lick."

His mouth is _so_ close, and I need to feel it more than anything _ever_, because _oh_. _My. God. _

"_Ithinkyoushouldfindout_." The words escape in one long whoosh of air, and just like that, we're stumbling into his room, towel-less and kissing.

He makes my skin blush, and my mouth strings together sounds it's never made before as _his_ mouth makes my back arch _so_ high, and my fingers curl in tight fists around his sheets. And then I listen to his sounds, and feel his fingers in _my_ hair as I learn the map of his body by touch and by taste.

Once we're sated and sleepy, I snuggle against his side, my leg thrown over his thighs and my head resting on his shoulder as his arm curls around me, and I close my eyes, happy.

It seems like hours later when I feel Edward's warm hand sliding across my waist. I half-expect the sun to be shining when I open my eyes, but it's just him, grinning at me, bathed in light from the lamp on the bedside table. A barely-there cool breeze floats through the room, carrying the soft hum of chirping crickets along with it.

"Hi," he whispers, brushing my hair behind my ear. I love the gentle curve of his lips, and the way that smile lights me up inside.

"Hi."

"I want to do something with you." He rubs my shoulder, warming the spot that's exposed to the cool air.

"Okay," I say, smiling. As if he had to ask.

He laughs because he knows what I'm thinking. "No, something else. Although we'll be doing lots more of _that_ for the foreseeable future. And the future after that, and...well, pretty much all the time for...ever," he says, shaking his head because he knows he sounds like a goof.

"That's a lot of future," I say, smiling. "And a lot of-"

"I _know_." He gives me a quick kiss and says, "Right now, though, let's do something that requires clothing."

His eyes are wide and excited as he pulls me up, and they linger as the sheet slips down off my chest. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and he grins as he tells me to lift my arms. I raise my eyebrow at him, but I do as he says. When he's this enthusiastic, I could never tell him no.

He pulls a sweatshirt over my head, warm fleece sliding against my skin while Edward's wrist brushes against the side of my chest as he pulls down the hem.

"Way to cop a cheap feel," I say, teasing him.

His eyebrows knit together, and he reaches up under the shirt, snaking his hands across my belly and ribs until he's cupping my breast, and my heart is pounding. He leans in and kisses me, his breath toothpaste fresh, and he takes my bottom lip between his as he pulls away, slowly dragging it through his teeth.

Then he moves in close, right by my ear, and says, "Nothing about the way I touch you is cheap."

I sigh a little as he pulls me up, light as air, and he laces his fingers through mine. We walk toward the balcony door, stopping only so he can pick up a heavy blanket off of his dresser, and once we're out in the cool night air, he drapes the blanket over a cot that sits to the right of us, taking up nearly the entire balcony.

"I thought maybe we could lie here for a while," he says, sweeping his thumb across the back of my hand. "This wasn't really made for two people, but I don't have much time left in this house, and all I want is to spend some of it out here with you."

It's too dark to really make out his face, but from the tone of his voice I can practically see the gentle crinkle between his eyebrows, and the slight turn of that sad smile I've come to know so well.

"I'd love that."

And I could cry looking at that cot, knowing how many sleepless nights Edward spent on it, staring up at the sky, desperately trying to feel close to the father who was taken from him too soon. And now this spot is being taken from him too, and God I'm so angry that I could break the wood we're standing on, and I'm so helpless, because...there's absolutely nothing I can do.

"C'mere," he says as he reclines, scooting over to the side so that there's room enough for me. I slip into that perfect spot in the crook of his arm, and Edward wraps the blanket around me, keeping me warm. Somehow, being in his arms makes all my anger slip away, and I'm calm, happy.

"Is it better now?" I ask as my fingertips trace the faded logo that stretches across his t-shirt. I close my eyes, hoping more than anything that there's some difference between this moment and all the others he spent out here so many years ago.

When he kisses my forehead, I can feel his smile against my skin, and his breath warms me as he says, "You have no idea how much better it is."

We're quiet, the two of us, just listening to the night as we both look up at the sky. I marvel at the patterns of the stars, something I'd never paid much attention to before I met him. There's a beauty in their chaos, how steady and bright they are. How, even on the cloudiest night, a few manage to peek through the darkness.

And as I make out one, two, three in a line, I ask, "Is that The Little Dipper?"

When he doesn't answer, I look over, and his eyes are closed. His breathing is steady and deep. And maybe it's because his body is tired and for once his mind isn't, but there's no tossing or turning, no restlessness, no worry.

Just peace.


	17. Planetesimal

**Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

_**Planetesimal**__: Planetesimals are formed from small dust grains that collide and stick together and are the building blocks that eventually form planets in new planetary systems._

* * *

"I love you Bella," Edward sighs, "God help me, I love you, but if you keep flipping through songs like a maniac, I'm going to take that iPod and throw it out the window."

"Do what you want, it's _your_ iPod," I tell him as I press the little white arrow he seems to hate so much.

"It's old as dirt, I won't miss it."

I look over at him and grin, because he's so full of it. "In that case, I hope you have all this Manilow backed up somewhere."

"I told you I had to learn that for a wedding I played last year."

"Yet somehow it's still on here."

"It won't sync with my computer anymore." He's so cute when he's being teased, all furrowed brows and pursed lips as he tries to fight a smile. "I can't take it off."

"It's okay to like muzak, Edward. I'll still love you, even if you have Kenny G's greatest hits on this thing." His eyes get wide as he grips the steering wheel, white-knuckled and tense. "Oh my God, you _do_ have Kenny G!" I hit the _Menu _button and barely have time to start scrolling before the iPod's out of my possession and into his.

"Deejay privileges revoked."

"It's my car," I whine, trying not to laugh.

"Well, I'm driving, so I win." He's wearing this self-satisfied smirk, and it's a damn shame it'd be so dangerous for me to lean over the armrest and kiss him right now. I want to press my lips against his and make myself the winner.

"If you're gonna be a pain in the ass, put on something that has a good beat. The pounding helps me keep my mind off of the impending doom."

"Dramatic," he sighs, not taking his eyes off the road. I like how breezy everything is with him, how he lets me joke about being worried and nervous. Those jokes seem to calm these worried, nervous feelings.

"Just wait, Edward. Just wait."

"She's trying to change, you said it yourself." It's the mantra I've been repeating over and over since Mom first invited me home. He even says it with the same lilt I do, and that makes me smile.

"I wish Emmett was going to be there. He's good at defusing tension." If I'm being honest with myself though, much as I love my brother, I know he's a crutch in situations like this. "I can't remember the last time I had dinner with both of my parents without him."

"Maybe it's a good thing," he says, smiling. "And you've got me, what could go wrong?"

"Hey, when did you become the optimist in this relationship?"

"When you became the pessimist," he teases. "About sixty or so miles ago, I think. When we head back to Seattle, things will be normal again."

"Is that how we work?"

"Yeah," he says, smiling. "That's exactly how we work."

It's nice having him here to keep my thoughts light, because even though I'm acting like this trip to Forks is going to be horrific, he's making me feel like it won't be at all. Maybe it's because the past two weeks have softened me, allowed me to believe that Mom's intentions are good. Or maybe it's just Edward coming with me, knowing that I have an ally. I'm still nervous—incredibly so—but I think the nerves come from a good place, from wanting Edward to be comfortable in my parents' home, in their company, and from hoping that they'll recognize how wonderful he is.

When I look over, I can't help but smile at the way his wrist rests on the steering wheel, carefree and easy. I love his profile, the sharp slope of his nose and the pout of his lips, the way they contrast against the green flash of trees that line the side of the road as we speed along the curves and straightaways toward Forks.

"Seriously, though," Edward says, his voice soothing as he rests his free hand on my leg, which I hadn't realized I'd been bouncing until he stilled it. "You need to relax."

He slides his palm across my knee, fingers splayed so that they spread out along the inside of my thigh. Most people probably wouldn't notice the hint of a mischievous little grin that pulls at his lips, but I do. I dream about it, I love all the crazy plans his mind devises when that grin takes shape. As his hand moves, fingertips sliding closer and closer to the hem of my shorts, my nerves buzz, and he leaves me breathless in the way only he knows how.

"If you're not careful, you're going to have to pull over."

He laughs as his fingers slide up, up, _oh my god_ up. "Don't tempt me."

_Oh_, I want to tempt him. I want to feel the rumble of gravel under the tires as he turns off on some small, deserted stretch of road. I want to see the dangerous flash in his eyes as he pulls me into the backseat and shows me all the reasons knees and elbows were made to bend, all the ways that muscles can stretch.

"Think we could fit back there?" I've never tried, but the way he looks at me, just a quick, hot glance from the corner of his eye, makes me feel like we need to give it a shot. Sooner rather than later.

"Absolutely." His fingers press into my skin. I _love _those fingers. "I can do big things in small spaces."

"Like?"

He licks his lips. "Like, spread you out across the seat...rest your legs on my shoulders."

I can't breathe. My lungs have stopped processing oxygen.

"And then I could li-"

"We can't," I say quickly, because my senses go haywire when he talks to me like this, and I need them all ready and in working order when I step foot into that house. "I'm too keyed up to be able to enjoy it, anyway." It's a lie, really. The dirtiest, worst lie. But all I can think about is one of Dad's cop friends catching us, and that would be mortifying.

"Eh," he says, running his hand along the inside of my thigh, because he's the devil and nothing deters him. "I could probably get you even more keyed up. And you'd _definitely_ enjoy that."

"How do you say things like that and not come off like a pompous douchebag?"

"How _do_ I come off?" His fingertips trace small, ticklish circles against my skin, and I'm about to lose my mind.

I bite my bottom lip as my cheeks grow hot. "You come off like...like you're trying to get me to want to put my mouth all over you. And you're succeeding."

He laughs, and it's so sexy, the sound of it, the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. All I want to do is unbuckle my seatbelt and lean over and kiss it. To lick that spot below his ear that makes him shiver.

"I know what I do to you. And it's all right to say it, because you do those things to me, too." He has no idea how many, many things I want to do to him. "The bonus is that you've forgotten about whatever it is you were worried about, haven't you?"

I slide my hand down the inside of his arm, wrapping my fingers around his.

"You make me forget a lot of things," I tell him. And when he does that, those things never seem important enough to remember.

We hold hands for the rest of the drive, somehow managing to make it to the house without stopping to try the back seat on for size, and my heart speeds up as the car slows to a stop in my parents' driveway.

"This is nice," Edward says as he leans forward against the steering wheel, looking around at the house and the large yard that surrounds it.

If I didn't feel the weight of this weekend before, I'm definitely feeling it now that he's here in my space, and there's a twist in the pit of my stomach, heavy with hope that everything will go well. That we'll pull out of this driveway just as happy as we pulled into it. I'm starting to understand why Edward was so nervous for me to meet his mother. This is big. _Really_ big.

We sit quietly for a while as I watch the porch swing sway in the breeze. I try to imagine the creak of the chains, the way the wind feels as it kisses my legs when I move back and forth. Anything to settle my mind. Edward always knows when I need a little bit of time, and he gives me plenty of it, until he breaks the silence and says, "Ready?"

The deep breath I take makes my heart pound. We can't sit out here forever.

"Ready."

He gets out and runs around to my side to open the door, and then he pulls out our bags, slinging them over his shoulder like he's done this a thousand times before. He threads his fingers through mine as our shoes crunch on the driveway's loose gravel, and my pulse pounding in my ears nearly drowns out the familiar squeak of the front steps as we take them one at a time.

Edward squeezes my hand, giving me confidence or courage, maybe some mixture of both. We can leave if things go wrong, and he'll be there to catch me. He's the best safety net, the softest place to land.

I knock on the door before we step inside, and Edward puts our bags down next to the stairs.

"Mom? Dad?"

I haven't called out for them in so long, and it's a little ridiculous now, because I know Dad's sitting at the kitchen table while Mom finishes cooking whatever it is that's making my mouth water and my stomach rumble.

"In here, Bella," Mom says over the metallic clang of pots and pans.

I hesitantly look through the doorway, some part of me wondering if Jake might be sitting at the dining room table, like he was before. But there's nothing out of the ordinary. Just Mom standing at the stove in her red-checkered apron, and Dad rising out of his chair, wearing his favorite flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, over jeans and a t-shirt.

"Edward," Mom says, reaching out to shake his hand. "It's good to see you again."

My boyfriend is so smooth, because he says hello, and hands her a bouquet of flowers that I didn't even realize he had brought along with us. Then my heart melts a little, because _he brought her flowers_.

"Oh, these are beautiful," she says, bringing them up to her nose and inhaling deeply. Dad's giving Edward the side-eye, and I can't tell if he's just trying to size him up, or if he's feeling kind of bad that he hasn't brought home a bouquet of anything in the last couple of years. "Aren't these beautiful, Charlie?"

Dad grunts, but I can see the beginnings of a smile underneath his mustache. I feel this small current of pride surge through me, because I've brought home such a gentleman.

"Dad, this is Edward. Edward, this is my Dad, Charlie." I hold my arms out like I'm Vanna White or something, like my father just bought a vowel, and I cringe, because not only do I look like an idiot, I should've introduced him as Chief Swan. Dad loves that.

"Pleased to meet you, Chief Swan," Edward says. Phew, he saved me.

Their hands clasp in some white-knuckled grip that's got to be the firmest of firm handshakes ever shaken. Dad's eyes narrow as he appraises Edward, but there's nothing he can possibly disapprove of. Edward's wearing a nice shirt and jeans, and there's no trace of hooligan, or ruffian, or any kind of man Dad would need to worry about corrupting his baby girl.

"Have a seat," Dad says. Edward pulls out a chair for me, and once I'm sitting, he takes the one directly across from my father.

"Would you like something to drink?" Mom asks Edward.

"Water, please."

She doesn't even ask me, she just mixes up some grape juice and club soda, a concoction I've loved since I was a child. She's made this for me countless times before, but there's something about the gesture now, the way she knows exactly what I want and exactly how I like it, that makes me feel like I'm wrapped up in my favorite blanket.

Dad clears his throat as he flips the page of his newspaper. "The trip was all right?"

"Yeah, it was good," I say.

Edward's looking down at his lap, grinning. I blush, remembering that grin from earlier, the way those lips looked as his fingers inched up my thigh. I've got to be careful about that, because even though he works in a small town PD, Dad has great instincts, and he'll know something's up. Even though he'd never say it, he'd give me that suspicious look, and there's no way I could explain to him that we didn't stop to have sex on the side of the road, even though we really, _really _wanted to.

"Car's okay? You're not still having trouble with it, are you?"

"No," I tell him. "Edward insisted that I get an oil change before we came up. Everything checked out." I always get my oil changed before I take a trip to Forks, but Dad doesn't know that. The more points that stack up in Edward's column, the better off we'll be.

Edward narrows his eyes, but he doesn't correct me. The approving grin Dad gives him makes the lie worthwhile.

"An ounce of prevention and all that," Dad mutters. "You've gotta pay attention to maintenance."

"We're big fans of maintenance," I tell him.

"We've got your bedroom all made up for you," he says. "Edward, you can sleep down here on the couch." Dad's all stern solemnity, like he's just caught Edward TP-ing the church or something. I almost laugh, but luckily I manage to keep it in.

"That sounds good, sir. Did the Mariners win last night?" Edward asks, looking over at Dad's paper. My father's face lights up.

It's not long before the two of them get lost in talk of MVP candidates and batting averages. High or low, I can't tell which one is supposed to be better, but they both look so cute bonding that I don't bother to ask.

Instead, I walk across the room, where Mom's stirring something that smells delicious.

"Need help?"

"Sure," she says, smiling. "Can you put the green beans out? Dinner will be ready in a few."

The bowl is warm in my hands as I put it down between Dad and Edward. The table's set for the most part, with the exception of a few things. I go over to the refrigerator and pull out a fresh beer for Dad along with the bottle of mustard, because I know he likes that on his roast beef. Edward likes steak sauce, so I grab that, too, and it occurs to me that I have absolutely no idea what my mother uses. The woman's been making me disgusting club soda mixes for my whole life, and I don't even know if she likes ketchup.

It's just a condiment, but the thought of it makes me incredibly sad.

I grab that red bottle, and a white one, too, figuring the more options I put out, the more likely I'll be to get one right.

I sink down into my chair as some strange ache that I can't explain pulls at my gut, radiating out to my fingers. Edward must be able to see it, because in the middle of Dad's rant about the infield fly rule, he turns to me and mouths, '_You okay?_'

All I can manage is a halfhearted smile, and it's strange how such a small observation can set my insides on edge and make me feel so uneasy. I know Mom's manipulative tactics like the back of my hand, but I'm beginning to realize that I don't really know any of the things that make her _her_. Sure, I can piss her off in two seconds flat, but I have no idea how to make her smile, and in the grand scheme of things, which one is more important?

Dad and Edward's sports talk blurs the edges of my thoughts, and baseball turns into football until Mom brings the roast to the table, gripping the sides of the platter between her bright yellow pot holders. They're singed at the edges from the days when she wasn't such a good cook, and I remember her back then, trying so hard to be perfect as Emmett, Dad, and I waited impatiently for dinner.

We begin serving ourselves, and silverware dipping into glass bowls rings out like a choir of bells. When Mom's plate is full, she grabs the ketchup and squirts a small circle of it next to her meat.

It's such a small piece of knowledge, but I want to fill all the blank pages between us. This is a start.

"This smells delicious, Mrs. Swan," Edward says as he places his napkin on his lap.

"Please, call me Renee."

I don't know why that makes me smile.

"It really does smell great, Mom."

She beams under our compliments, a huge grin breaking through her cloudy expression like sunshine. Praise suits her, and I decide that I should compliment her more often, no matter how trivial it might seem.

"So, Edward," Mom says as she cuts up her food, "how are you settling into your new place?"

That question makes my heart skip a beat, even though Emmett assured me he didn't tell her why Edward had to move. He promised she wouldn't ask. I don't know how he could possibly do that, but I have to trust that he's right.

"It's going pretty well," he replies, smiling. "I hate unpacking, though."

"Don't we all," Mom says, looking over at Dad. "That's why we've stayed put for the past twenty-five years."

Mom's cheeks brighten as Dad's finger brushes the back of her hand. She tilts her head toward him, and the corners of her lips turn up as some private joke passes between them. I like the way their secret makes them look, all young and in love and the way they always should be.

"Thanks again for bringing that food over for me. It was delicious."

"I'm happy I could help." The softness in her eyes makes me believe her.

"Bella's been a lifesaver," Edward says, looking over at me. "She made sure the movers unloaded everything into the right rooms and helped me figure out the best way to arrange the furniture. If it weren't for her, I'd be drowning under piles of boxes."

"Bella has a good eye for detail," Mom replies, and I feel like she's about to take a jab at me. My stomach sinks like lead in my belly. "She's always been good at things like that. I think if she would apply herself-"

"These potatoes are delicious." Dad's voice is loud as it overpowers hers, and his gaze is hard, sharp. I could probably cut my meat on it. "They're really great," he says, quieter now.

I don't like the tension in the air, so I try to turn the conversation in a better direction, somewhere away from me.

"That lasagna you sent over was really good. I think Edward ate half the tray in one sitting," I say, as Mom's gaze shifts in my direction. Her eyes are bright. "Can I have the recipe?"

I'm rewarded with a warm, genuine smile. She's so pretty when she smiles. "Sure. I'll write it down for you before you leave. You make amazing sauce, so yours will probably taste even better."

It's the easiest compliment, the way it falls naturally from her lips. The kind words make me sit up straight and hold my head high, and I love the feeling. It's not so hard; why doesn't she do it more often?

"So, Edward," Dad says after he takes a sip of his beer. "What is it you do for a living?"

"I'm an accountant, sir."

Mom's eyebrows scrunch together, and dread rolls across my skin, making the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. We managed to make it a whole hour without this coming up.

"Bella works at..." Mom stops herself before she gets through the sentence, and her eyes tighten at the edges, something someone who doesn't know her very well wouldn't notice. And the sad thing is that I might not have known that she likes ketchup, but I do know _this_.

"These green beans taste amazing," Dad says as he places his hand on top of Mom's, his voice firmer than it was before. Her knuckles blaze bright white, her hands curled into tight fists.

When I look over at Edward, he knows what I know. The green beans are good, but they're not great, and neither are the potatoes. These compliments are code so Mom knows when to keep herself in check, and I'm torn between being proud that she's making an effort to contain herself, and wanting to cry because she needs to.

It doesn't take long for Edward to reach under the table and lace his warm, comforting fingers through mine, and I give them a squeeze because I'm so glad he's here with me. The air that rolls across this conversational minefield is tense and thick, but fighting is a lot easier when you have someone on your side.

"Did you always want to be an accountant?" Mom asks. This question isn't good at all, because if he says yes it'll just highlight how unsure I am about my life, and if he says no she'll think he's aimless like me.

His green eyes meet mine for a moment before he sighs and says, "No, ma'am."

And all the air rushes right out of my lungs, because..._what is he doing?_

"I had always wanted to be a doctor, even went to medical school. But I dropped out in my second year." He looks her right in the eye as he says it, no trace of the shame I saw when he shared that secret with me. His back is rod-straight, shoulders squared. My heart hurts, because he just took that painful spot and left it open for her to pick at.

And he did it all for me.

"Edward, don't."

He smiles as he shakes his head, all confident and sure, so I bring my other hand down to cover his, because I would have to be the biggest idiot alive to ever let him go.

"Wow," Mom says in this great whoosh of a breath. "What happened?"

"I knew right away that it wasn't for me, but it was all my mom could talk about, so I kept going. I could never just...make it fit, so I left."

"Your parents must have been so disappointed."

"Mom-"

"Renee-"

"My mom _was _disappointed," Edward says, not even breaking a sweat. "But, you know, if I told her I wanted to be a garbage collector, she'd be out on her front lawn waving at me every morning."

"Going from a doctor to a garbage man?"

"Both are honest work," he says. And the way he's smiling at Mom, refusing to be intimidated or talked down to while still being polite, makes it impossible for her to _really_ argue with him, even though she's trying.

"But one is-"

"She just wants me to have a good life. And I've always liked math more than science."

"So..." Mom says, pushing her potatoes around on her plate, "you became an accountant."

"I did. And I'll tell you what, being able to give tax advice has come in a lot handier than knowing how to do CPR."

This slow grin bends Mom's lips, and I can't believe what I'm seeing, what Edward just did for me, or how he did it. I love the smile he gives me, so beautifully reassuring, and he winks and squeezes my hand before his slips away. When I look at my dad, he's beaming at Edward like he's just turned in all ten of America's most wanted.

"You like to fish, Edward?" he asks.

"I do, sir."

"What do you say we go to the lake tomorrow, catch something for dinner?"

"That'd be great." Edward answers quickly, his eyes _so_ bright. "I haven't been in years."

I'll bet the last time he went was with his father, and the fact that mine wants to take him out on the boat makes my heart do this crazy little flip in my chest.

I must have some strange, tense look on my face, because Dad turns to me and says, "You can relax, Bella. I'm not going to throw him overboard."

I roll my eyes, and maybe it's my imagination, or that stupid, unshakable hope that's taken over me, but the conversation gets lighter, easier. We laugh as we finish our dinner, and Mom's pleasant; she avoids asking any more awkward, baiting questions, and Dad doesn't have to compliment her cooking again, not even once.

After dinner, Edward and I wash the dishes as Dad reads the rest of his paper, all propped up at the table like this is just any ordinary Saturday. Every once in a while, Edward bumps my shoulder and smiles, then splashes soapy water onto my stack of clean dishes. I flick fluffy clouds of suds at him in retaliation, and when Dad's engrossed in an article and Mom's rummaging around in the fridge, Edward leans over and kisses me.

We play four rounds of Rummy over coffee and cake, and when Mom's dealing cards through yawns and Dad's having a hard time keeping his eyes open, we decide to call it a night.

"I've got my eye on you," Dad says as Edward pulls a t-shirt and shorts out of his duffel. What he means is that he's going to keep the bedroom door open so he'll know if Edward tries to sneak into my room, even though I know it's an empty threat. I kiss Edward goodnight, and I follow my parents upstairs like the good daughter I'm trying so desperately to be.

My old room seems suffocating now, all closed-in blue walls and posters for groups I stopped listening to years ago. The bed is tiny too, and when I look at it all I can think about is how Edward would have to scrunch up behind me in order for both of us to fit. It's the first night since we slept together that we've had to sleep apart, and even though he's just one floor down, it's much too far away.

I brought my own pajamas, but instead of wearing them, I dig to the bottom of my bag and fish out Edward's old Dartmouth shirt, the one I snagged off of his bed last night. I bring it up to my face and breathe, because I love that soapy clean Edward smell that seems to permeate everything he touches. I slip it over my head, letting the cool, worn cotton hug my skin, and after brushing my teeth, I crawl into bed.

Just when I'm about to turn off the light, there's a soft knock on my door.

"Come in."

Not that I thought Edward would chance coming up here, but this small wave of disappointment crests when the door opens and I see my mother's face.

"Hi," she whispers as she walks across the room, floorboards creaking beneath her feet.

"Hi."

Slowly she sits on the edge of the bed, and her body makes a small dip in the ancient mattress, tilting me toward her. She's had this pink bathrobe she's wearing since I was a child, and I always liked to run the backs of my fingers along the silk tie around her waist.

All these years later, it's still smooth beneath my skin.

"I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable," she says, twisting the fringe of my pillow. "Edward's all set up downstairs."

I want to tell her that Edward's a pro at setting up comfy couch beds, but that seems like too personal a story, something that will lead to so many questions that I'm not ready to answer yet.

"I'm fine, I'm comfortable."

"Good."

She looks at me for a long while, and I wish I could read her mind, see the things that she's thinking. Her expression is so unguarded and open, and I can't remember the last time the two of us were just together like this, tension-free.

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Since Dad's taking Edward out on the lake early tomorrow, I thought maybe we could make breakfast."

There's that sunshine smile again.

"You want to do that?" Her voice is high-pitched and hopeful, and it makes me feel like there's nothing else in the world I'd rather do.

"Yes."

She reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from my face, then she leans down and kisses my forehead, her lips lingering.

I put my hand over hers, and I squeeze my eyes shut, because I already feel the hot wet welling up behind my lids. I suck in this squeaky breath because I'm trying so hard to hold it all inside, but Mom doesn't even bother. Her tears wet my forehead as mine wet her cheek, and she wraps me up in her arms. She holds me like she did when I was young, a warm embrace that soothed the hurt of unrequited crushes, birthday parties I wasn't invited to, and school plays I wasn't cast in.

The only difference is that now, I hold her, too.

For the few minutes we're all tangled up together as we quiet and calm, that empty spot she left inside of me feels full again.

"I'm glad you came home, Bells," she whispers. "And I _love _you."

Tears well up again, but I don't fight them this time.

"I love you, too."

A few minutes later, she pulls away and tucks me in, and she smiles as she shuts the door behind her. Here in the dark, with moonlight streaking across my faded lavender bedspread, I look up at the ceiling and let myself be happy. Because even if we fight tomorrow, I'll get to keep this moment, and that makes this entire trip worthwhile.

When I finally close my eyes, sleep won't come. I don't know if it's the unfamiliar quiet, the unfamiliar bed, or the unfamiliar lack of Edward that keeps me up, but the longer I lie here the lonelier I feel. And that seems like such a shame when there's a warm body downstairs that would be all too happy to have me curl up around it.

My father's snoring cuts through silence when I slowly open my bedroom door, and I tiptoe downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky step. The tiny desk light in the living room is on, and Edward's splayed out on the sofa, his arm flung across his forehead.

"Can't sleep?" I whisper.

"I'm used to you now." I love his tired eyes, and the way his smile brightens them up. "I keep looking for someone to hold onto."

"And steal the covers away from."

He laughs, short and breathy. "Yeah, that too. Speaking of thieves, I believe this is mine."

The backs of his fingers skim across my thighs, right below the hem of his shirt. He thinks I don't realize that he's lifting it to see if I'm wearing undies. But he's cute, so I let him.

"I did."

"It looks better on you," he mutters.

Edward's hand snakes up the back of my leg as I lean over to turn off the lamp. There's a nightlight in the corner of the room, but it's dim, and if by some miracle Mom or Dad come downstairs, it's probably best that they not be able to see in here.

"Scootch over," I say.

"Bella..." I know he wants to feel my body against his, but his uptight brain just has to overthink everything.

"It's okay, let me in."

It doesn't take much to convince him, and I slide under the thin sheet, resting my head on his bicep.

"This is better," I tell him, quiet words that float on our breaths as I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip. He's stubbly from the day's growth, and I long to feel that gentle scratch against my skin.

My lips brush against his, soft and light, as my fingers run through his hair. And when I open my eyes and see all his green, I just have to kiss him again.

"Thank you," I whisper, sliding my thumb across his cheek.

"For what?"

"For today. For coming here with me. For bringing my mom flowers, and for talking baseball with my dad. For putting yourself out there for me. You didn't have to do that."

He's all dimple-grin and clear eyes as he wraps his arm around my waist, his hand coming to rest just below the small of my back. "Yes I did."

He presses his lips to mine, and it's slow at first, the way many of our kisses start out when we're lying together like this. But before long it's quick breaths and heavy chests, shirts bunched between fingers, and warm mouths and moves and touches. It's me straddling his hips, my knees planted on either side of his thighs.

"We can't do this here." He talks through a kiss and his voice is weak, because we've never let a 'can't' stop us before, and there's something about this place, this dangerous space in time, that makes it all so much hotter.

"We _can_."

I won't tell him that I've done this very thing here so many times before, because I want to make new memories, to redecorate this place in the vibrant, rich colors of Edward and me. And I don't want him focusing on anyone else, or anything other than the slick slide of my skin, and that quick, hot, beautiful rush that takes over his body when I make him come.

Tonight, I'll hang on so that he can let go.

"Don't worry," I whisper. "We'll keep our clothes on."

He lets out this jagged little breath as I lean down and gently suck on his bottom lip, pulling it between my teeth as I sit up and knit my fingers through his. His eyes are hooded as he looks up at me, because he knows, he _knows _that I can make this good, make his toes curl and his body come alive, without even removing a stitch of fabric.

My tongue finds all the places I know electrify him, and I shift my hips down, pressing against him, rocking slowly back and forth.

"Jesus," he says, his neck muscles tight, like cords holding him down to the earth.

"Shhhh," I whisper, kissing his mouth to keep it occupied.

And he was right, there are a lot of things we can't do, so I show him the things that we can. I can put my mouth here, and make his head loll back on his pillow, eyelids and fingers clenched. I can slide my tongue across this sweet stretch of skin that no one else ever sees, making his muscles tense all the way from his fingers to his toes. My body can push his over the edge, hot cotton sliding over hotter skin, and I can hold him as he falls apart, whispering how good I feel, telling me I'm the best.

We're the best together, always.

While his pulse stutters back into its regular rhythm, we're all light, tender kisses, and light, tender words. We lie together like spoons, my back to his front, our legs twined together, and I stay with him until his breathing is steady. Then I reluctantly slink out of his embrace and trudge upstairs, not wanting to press my luck.

When I sneak past my parents' bedroom, Dad's still snoring, Mom curled tightly against his side.

Back in my lonely, cold, one-person bed, I don't have trouble falling asleep this time around; I'm dead to the world as soon as my head hits the pillow.

When I open my eyes, it's light outside, early morning fog swirling outside my window, fine and silky, like cobwebs. As I roll over and stretch, some familiar smell pricks my senses, spicy and sweet. It pulls me out of the bed and down the stairs, and I'm yawning as I put my hair back into a messy ponytail.

In the kitchen, Mom's standing next to the stove, apron on, rolling out a thin sheet of dough. The air smells like cinnamon and nutmeg, and there's a huge kettle full of oil on the burner. She smiles when she sees me, her face still sleepy, and I can't help but smile back; it's like all the hope that's built up inside of me just had to find a way out.

Donuts. She wants to make donuts. There's even a jar of sprinkles on the counter.

"Edward and your father left a couple of hours ago. It was getting late, and you were sleeping so soundly that I didn't want to wake you. I thought you might be hungry when you got up, so I went ahead and got started. I hope that's okay."

The explanation, laced with the gentle inflection of her words as she says them, sounds like she really will be sorry if this isn't okay with me. But it _is_. It's so much more than okay.

"Thank you for thinking of me," I tell her, and the tension melts from her shoulders.

"Wanna do the honors?"

She hands me a donut cutter, the one we've had since I was a child. It used to be perfectly round, a shiny silver circle we brought out on the special mornings when it was just the two of us. Years of being shoved in drawers have marred it, and now there are small curves pushing into the bigger one, tiny dents of life.

I guess that happens to everything after a while.

I'm careful as I press into the dough, lining each slice against the one before it, until the sheet is filled with circles.

"Edward's nice," Mom says, reaching into the cupboard to pull out more sugar.

"Does that surprise you?" I glance at her sideways, trying to get a feel for how this conversation's going to go.

"No. He's very attentive, very good to you. And he's head over heels in love, no doubt about it."

That she can see how he feels, and admits to it, seems like the best kind of victory.

"I'm head over heels, too."

"I know," she says, smiling.

There's something very warm about her voice, something foreign to me. She's grinning down at her handiwork, and I think she might actually be…happy?

"Are you two living together?" She tries so hard to sound nonchalant, but the question comes out of nowhere, like thunder.

"No," I say, my voice gritty. I have to fight to keep my attitude in check. "But it's headed in that direction." She'll probably say that's wishful thinking, but every single part of me, every muscle, every cell, believes that our love is stitched so perfectly into my life that it won't ever unravel.

She bites her lip, and I know what's coming, so I head her off at the pass.

"Things are happening fast for us, I know." And before she can protest, I add, "I don't think that's a bad thing, Mom." If she can _see_ these feelings between me and Edward, can't she understand how strong they are? I'm no expert, but I _know_ something so tender and loving and once-in-a-lifetime is beyond special.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing, Bella." She pours the sugar into her frosting concoction and stirs furiously, the whisk scraping loudly against the side of the bowl. "I just want you to protect yourself. Give yourself some time."

"Mom," I say firmly, gripping the counter. "I don't need time to be sure of how I feel about him. There are people who have been together for _years_ who don't know what we know."

I sound like some lovesick kid, even I recognize that. But I won't let her question me, what I know I feel, what _he_ makes me feel.

"You're so headstrong," she says, swiping her hands against her apron. "Even if you're bound to fail, you're going to fail with everything you've got."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, because I feel the anger bubbling up inside of me, a low burn in my gut that heats my skin. It threatens to boil over, to find its way out in ugly, defensive words that I can't ever take back.

"This isn't going to fail, Mom."

"I'm not talking about Edward, Bella. You've always been like this. Once you get your mind set on something, that's it. Failure or not, you're knee deep in it."

"That's a backhanded compliment if I've ever heard one."

"That's not how I mean it." She smiles as she cups my face, and somehow the touch calms me. "I've always thought that we were carbon copies of one another. Headstrong, stubborn as hell. All push, push, push. And it's true. To some extent, we are."

"Mom, you don't know-"

"Let me finish," she sighs. "I know your father told you about that time I left him, right after we were married. Once I found out, I was so angry that I made him sleep on the couch. I haven't spent too many nights alone since we've been together, but as I lay there thinking, I realized it. It hurt like hell to admit, and it took me some time to come to terms with it. I'm _still_ trying."

I purse my lips together and bite into the flesh, desperate to keep my mouth shut.

"The difference between us is that you push for things, and I push against them. You decide you're going to do something, and you run toward it full-speed, arms open. Sometimes I run away. You try to make things happen, and I try to keep them from happening."

The words are firm as she says them, and they stack on top of each other, building a bridge between us.

"I don't think you give yourself enough credit," I say. She might run, but she's no coward.

She smiles, and gently slides her thumb across my chin. "I don't think I give you enough credit, either. I think you're very brave."

I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to hear these things, and I always thought that when I did it would be some life-changing moment, with tears, and tissues, and laughter, and love. But in reality, it's so much more subtle. It's a ripple, really, a tremor; a small thing that shifts us, pushes us closer together so that the canyon between us is less deep, less wide, less difficult to navigate. The fact that these words don't turn the past into some smooth, shiny thing makes me trust them, and I can't wait to test their strength, to see if they hold.

"I'll admit though," she says, hand dropping to her side as her eyes narrow thoughtfully, "I'm not sure how I feel about the two of you working together. That's a bad-"

"Mom-"

"-idea all around. It makes you two seem unpro-"

"_Mom_."

She stops talking, and I hope she starts listening.

"We're having a moment here. Please don't ruin it."

For once, she doesn't. And slowly, she grins.

In the quiet that follows, I begin to realize that we'll probably always have times like these: pristine moments clear as glass until one of us reaches out and puts our fingerprints all over it. That's okay, because our relationship will never be perfect, and neither will we.

She wraps her arms around me, holding me tight as she kisses my forehead. The ease of being so close, along with the sound of '_I love you_'s, make me smile. It's real and bright, the kind of smile that hurts my cheeks, stretches my lips, and soothes my heart.

This is just a hug, but it's a step.

It's just a step, but it's a beginning.


	18. Conjunction

**Chapter Eighteen  
**

* * *

_**Conjunction: **__An event that occurs when two or more celestial objects appear close, close together in the sky.  
_

* * *

There's this spot on Edward's bed that was made just for me; a small, comfy dip carved out by his body throughout years of sleeping alone. When I lie sprawled out horizontally across the mattress, I melt into that spot, muscles relaxed from the way it hugs the slope of my back. When I first mentioned it to Edward, he swore it was my imagination, spewing some sales pitch about individually pocketed coils and lumbar support. But I know, I _know_ it's there, and it's mine, and it's one of my favorite places in this whole apartment.

This _bed_ is my favorite place when Edward's lying on it with me, like he is right now.

I've been trying to read this page for the past fifteen minutes, my eyes scanning the words until my thoughts take over, turning the lines into fuzzy black and white shapes, like some literary Rorschach Test. Every once in a while I tilt the book down, just enough to ogle Edward without being too obvious about it. Not that he'd care, really. I'm sure he enjoys being ogled when I'm the one doing the ogling.

I don't why I'm even trying to read, because it's a useless endeavor when he's sitting here like this with his shirt off, sweatpants slung low across his hips, and his eyebrows all scrunched together as he thinks. He's shuffling through some pamphlets Esme's nurse gave to him, trying to figure out which hospital bed he should rent for her when she comes home in a couple of weeks.

He flips over one brochure, then another, running his fingers through his hair as he looks at them, all fanned out like a colorful, oversized hand of playing cards. When he's picked the one he wants to dive into first, he puts the others on the nightstand. His free hand rests on my leg, and his warm skin slides across mine, each pass inching higher and higher up my calf. I love the thoughtful look on his face, and the way his lips move a little as he reads. Most of all I love the way he's touching me, without even realizing what he's doing.

As I watch him plan for his mother's homecoming, I can't push back this selfish little wave of regret that laps at my skin, making me feel cold and anxious. I want Esme out of that hospital almost as much as Edward does, but I know that the second she comes through that front door that nothing will be the same anymore, and I'll miss all of this. So much.

I'll miss hearing that annoyed little grunt Edward makes as he rolls over to turn off the alarm clock in the morning, and the way I have to straddle his hips and cover his face with kisses to get him to wake up. I'll miss seeing him like this, all casual and relaxed before he wraps me in his arms and kisses the day away, then gives me reason to love the night.

"What's the matter?" Edward asks, tossing the pamphlet he was reading onto the bed.

"Nothing. I was just thinking."

"About?"

"About how much I'm going to miss this," I say. I can hear the wistfulness in my voice, and I wonder if it's as obvious to Edward as it is to me.

"You planning on going somewhere?" He sounds easy, relaxed, but I can see that hint of worry behind his eyes as I close my book and lay it down beside me on the duvet.

"No, but once your Mom comes home it won't be like this anymore."

"Like what?" His hands still travel up and down my leg, relaxing me.

"Like you and me lying around together. Me spending the night."

He shifts his body toward mine, muscles tense. "Why not?"

"Your mom will be here," I say, feeling a little shy even though I can't exactly pinpoint the reason.

"Yeah, she tends to hang around a lot when she's living somewhere."

I smile. "Don't be a smartass."

"I'm not." He laughs, and gently squeezes my thigh. "I'm just not sure what you mean."

"I don't know," I say, twisting my hands together. "She'll be in her room and we'll be in here, and she'll know what we're doing."

My parents have always made me sleep alone when I've taken a boyfriend home to Forks, and even though we've managed to find a way to sneak to be together, that's just what it was. Sneaking. I can't quite wrap my brain around being flagrantly out and about with it, saying goodnight to his mother and then shutting the bedroom door behind us.

"Oh, don't worry about that," he says, smiling. "She thinks we spend most of the night sitting on opposite sides of the room, reading, and that when we turn out the lights, we make shadow puppets on the wall. I told her you're really good with wolves. You might want to practice, because she'll probably ask to see it once I bring her home. We'll make a cushion fort in the living room, and I'll bring a flashlight. You can make s'mores, and-"

"I'm being serious!" I hit him in the chest with a pillow. "She'll know we're in here..._having sex_."

"Bella," he laughs, "we've been together for how long now? I gave you a key to the apartment. I'm pretty sure she knows we..._have sex_."

The amused glint in his eyes makes me realize I'm being more than a little ridiculous, and I grin, turning my head and pressing my cheek against the pillow.

"I never would've pegged you to be such a prude," he teases, tickling the skin behind my knee.

"A prude wouldn't have done those things I did to you on the ride home from Forks."

He takes a deep breath, pulling my legs further up his lap.

"Cars. Who knew?"

"We do now."

"Yeah," he sighs, getting some far-off look in his eyes before he remembers our conversation. "Look, I get why this might be kind of weird for you, given the way your parents handled things when we were in Forks. And that's cool, I understand..."

"But..."

"But...I'm twenty-six years old, Bella. I love my mom, and I want her here, but we're not going to go on the back burner because of it. She and I had a long talk about how this is going to work. We have to be equals, and that includes you spending the night if you want to. And I _really_ hope you want to." His fingertips trail along the curve of my ankle, and that devilish grin melts me.

I sit up and swing my left leg over his lap, knees on either side of him as I sit back on his thighs and run my fingers through his hair.

"I _want_ to." My lips press against his, soft and sweet, and when I pull back and see his happy smile, I'm compelled to share some news that I've been waiting to spill since he came home an hour ago. "There's something I need to tell you," I say, taking his hands in mine. I grin, because I can see his nerves creeping in, and this is good news. _Great _news. The kind of news he doesn't need to worry about, and it's been too long since he's heard any of that.

"Okay."

"Remember that job Alice told me about the other night when we were at dinner?"

"The one at her sister's firm?"

"Yeah. They called me right after I left work this afternoon, and they want me to come in for an interview tomorrow." The words fall from my lips, practically vibrating with excitement. Edward hears it, because his whole face lights up.

"That's great!" he says, twining our fingers together.

"I know. I'm just...I'm kind of nervous."

"I sat in on your interview with Garrett." He flashes that dimple grin that I love so much as he tries to concrete my confidence. "You'll _nail_ it."

"It's not just about the interview," I admit. When I look into those brilliant green eyes, all my fears come rushing out. Because deep down inside me, I know he'll always calm them.

"What's it about, then?"

I look down at our hands, studying the curve of his thumbnail, and the rough patch of skin on the right side of his knuckle from the weird way he holds his pen.

"I'm a little scared to mess with things, you know? Of shifting the balance of my life, because I feel like everything's perfect right now."

Edward's lips kiss my fingers as his warm laugh kisses my skin. "If you think this is perfection, I can't wait to see what happens when you actually experience it."

"What do you mean?"

"Bella," he sighs, grinning. "I'm living in this cramped apartment, waiting for my _mom_ to move in with me. I work two jobs. Three, if you count whatever wedding gigs I get on the weekends. My bank account is about to be seriously depleted, and I don't know how-"

"Edward," I laugh, pressing my fingers against his lips to stop the laundry list of ways he thinks he's a failure. "I didn't mean the situation is perfect, it's just that things are going so well, and it's been so long since I've just been...happy. I'm scared I'm going to make a wrong move and set things turning in the wrong direction, sending everything toppling over into bad places."

"But this is a _good_ thing, Bella."

"It is." My apprehension turns to excitement with the touch of his hand, and for one wonderful moment, this quick, hot current of anticipation sparks my skin.

"It's working in logistics, right?"

"Yep. A couple of steps above entry-level, and I'll have room to grow. There are opportunities to advance that I don't have at our firm."

"And from what Alice said, it seems like this is right up your alley," he says, cupping my cheek.

"You know how much I like solving problems." I turn and kiss the palm of his hand. I love the look he gives me, bright eyes and a big smile that makes me feel like any job in the world could be mine. "I had a great conversation with the CEO today. And this would be good for us, too, because I think people are starting to catch on to-"

"Wait. You're not doing this for us, are you?" Those bright eyes turn steely as his eyebrows knit together, his jaw set in a hard line.

"What?"

"You don't have to rush into anything, Bella. If people start gossiping about us, let 'em gossip. Take your time, and if you don't feel like this is something you want to do, then don't do it."

"If I kept working for Garrett, I'd be doing that for us. I'm doing this for _me_."

"Good."

"I would be great at this job, and the best thing," I say, running the tips of my fingers along that perfect spot where his neck slopes into his shoulder, "is that the office is only three buildings down from ours."

"Once Mom comes home, we could drive to work together."

"We could have lunch together." I move closer to him, my skin brushing against his as I inch my knees further up the bed.

"And we'll come home together." His lips curl up when he says that last word, and it's a magnet for my lips. They just have to taste him, to make sure that smile stays right where it is.

"Yeah," I whisper with a soft brush of a kiss.

"And you'll spend the night," he whispers back, his hands sliding across my shoulders.

"I'll spend the night."

His fingers trail up into my hair, wrapping waves around them, and my lips find his, all soft and smiley and mine.

"The thing is," he says, his breath warm against my ear before he presses kisses against my cheek, my chin, my lips. "If you're going to stay here, you'll have to learn to be a little quieter."

"You're flattering yourself," I tell him, even though I can't help the hum that vibrates in the back of my throat as he kisses me, because when his hands are on my body and his lips are on my lips, the only thing I can do is hold onto him and let myself go.

Edward lifts my shirt, his touch ticklish as his fingers move across my ribs and between my breasts. That cocky little crooked smile blooms when I gasp as his thumbs brush my nipples, and I need to keep him in check before that ego of his inflates beyond control.

"I think we both know I'm not the noisy one," I say, kind of breathless.

He's sucking on the skin just below my jaw, and the quiet little laugh he lets out just begs me to prove him wrong.

"Right _there,_" I say in a tight, deep grunt, doing my best impression of him. "Don't stop. I'm gonna..._I'm gonna_..." He sits up, eyes wide, because he knows I've got him. I know his sounds like the back of my hand, because they're my favorite sounds in the world. I love the way those words fall from his lips before he clenches his eyes and his jaw shut, body reeling, all because of me.

He slides his hands up my sides, lifting my shirt up and over my head, tossing it on the bed beside us.

"Betcha I'm not the _noisiest_ one."

"Bet what?" I ask. I love a challenge.

"When you lose, you can buy my coffee in the morning," he says.

"When _you_ lose, you can buy _my_ coffee. And a donut."

He laughs. "Okay."

"You can only use your mouth."

"_Deal_." Edward licks his lips. Apparently he loves a challenge, too.

"Who gets to go fir-"

I squeal as he quickly flips me over, lowering himself on top of me. Then his lips find mine, and he's so tender and slow, kissing me the way he knows I like it, the way that makes my body all warm and boneless, and makes my brain forget where I am. I don't even care if it's a tactical maneuver, because I'll buy him coffee every day for the rest of his life as long as he keeps making me feel what I'm feeling.

"Starting now," he whispers, brushing the tip of my nose with the tip of his before he lifts himself up, sitting back on his knees.

And the truth is, he wasn't flattering himself at all, because I can't keep quiet when he touches me like this. Just the soft brush of cotton sliding down my legs catches my breath, and he kisses his way from my ankle to my knee and farther up, grinning wickedly as I tremble when his stubble grazes the inside of my thigh. He plays _so_ dirty, and I love every second of it.

I close my eyes, and as my back presses against the sweetest spot on this mattress, Edward's tongue presses against the sweetest spot on my body. And I lose that bet.

Twice.

In the morning, Edward and I drive separately to work because I've taken the afternoon off for my interview, and he's going to visit Esme straight from the office. My nerves have me more than a little on edge, so I'm standing at Jessica's desk, impatiently drumming my fingertips as I wait for her to put the finishing touches on a file I need to give to Garrett before I can leave for the day. It's still early, some of our coworkers aren't even in yet, but she tends to dally and I won't let her hold me up.

Much as she needs to be nagged, Jessica definitely doesn't like it, and I know the more I pressure her to finish the damn file, the longer she'll take. She hums as she flips through the pages she's printed, and I watch Edward make copies in the room across the hall to keep myself from ripping those pages right out of her hands.

I can't help the grin that pulls at my lips as he huddles over the copier, because he's wearing a crisp white shirt similar to the one he had on that day the toner exploded all over him, so many months ago. He sees me when he looks up, and he smiles, because he's probably thinking the same things I am, wondering if things might've turned out differently if I'd never had to clean that mess off him.

This lovesick schoolgirl sigh finds its way out of me, and Jessica rolls her eyes because she thinks I'm trying to hurry her. Just when I'm about to say something that's probably not going to come across very nicely, Edward walks up, copies in hand, looking cute as ever.

"Feel like getting some coffee after I drop these off at my desk?" he asks. His voice is so guarded and friendly, because he's trying to sound like we're just coworkers, acquaintances. Like I didn't slide my tongue across nearly every inch of his body a few hours before we left for work this morning.

"Okay," I say, fighting a smile as I try to mirror his airy demeanor. I'm pretty sure I fail though, because we're both so awful at this, and I can tell he wants to laugh, which makes _me_ want to laugh, too.

I know that I _did_ fail when Jessica sniggers as Edward walks away, and I'm beginning to wonder why I'm even trying to hide all of this at this point. Mike and Jessica practically make out in the kitchen, and no one seems to think anything of it.

"He's gotten friendly lately," she says, biting on the cap of her pen.

"You think?" My head automatically turns in Edward's direction, but I catch myself halfway there, and try to play it off by rubbing my chin on my shoulder.

"Uh...yeah, _I think_," she says, talking to me like I'm a moron. "Don't pretend like you don't notice it."

"He has been more tolerable lately," I reply, scrunching up my nose for some reason. God, I'm horrible at hiding.

"Oh, come_ on_, Bella."

"What?"

"I see the way you two look at each other. Even Shelly can see it, and she walked into a wall yesterday."

"I heard that!" Shelly says.

"You think you're so slick, but-"

"Jess," Mike says, leaning over the wall between their cubicles. "Leave her alone."

She shrugs. "I guess it doesn't matter. Someone banged the attitude right out of him, and I'm grateful for that."

She's just making a joke, trying to get under my skin, but God, I want to crush her. I want to snap her like a twig for degrading what Edward and I have into some dirty little office rumor, for insinuating that all it took was a roll in the sack for Edward to get through all he's gotten through. He's _so_ strong, and it kills me that she thinks of him like this, like some kind of punchline.

I'm trying to control my anger before I say something I'm going to regret, and just when I open my mouth to tell her off, Mike steps in.

"That's enough, Jess," he says, his tone full of warning, his eyes narrow and angry. They look at each other for a moment, and slowly I see the tension melt from Jessica's shoulders as Mike's stare becomes softer, and even a little playful. In a flash, he's back to the guy I've come to know: friendly, teasing. "Just because you couldn't keep your hands off me doesn't mean everyone around here's all over each other."

'_Thank you_,' I mouth. Mike smiles because even though he knows—he's caught Edward and me red-handed—he's decent enough to let us keep our secret.

She gives me some annoying, pouty look, and I ignore the unrelenting urge to smack her.

Edward strolls up, hands in his pockets, careful to keep a safe distance. Oh, how I want to reach over and put my hand around his, and twine our fingers together. I want to pull on his tie and lift myself up on my tiptoes so I can taste him, because it's only been two hours since I kissed him last, but two hours is much too long.

He grins like he knows what I'm thinking, and that dimple I love so much makes all my anger melt away.

"You ready?" he asks.

I nod, folding my arms across my chest to keep myself from doing something stupid, and I walk out into the elevator lobby with a heavy heart. Because even though I might not get the job I'm interviewing for today, I'll get one eventually, and now I feel like these trips are on borrowed time. It's just a walk to get two cups of coffee every morning, but it's part of us. I'll miss it when it's gone.

But like he always does, Edward somehow manages to make me feel like none of that really matters. By the time we're walking back to the office, cups in hand, I'm light again.

I watch him as he sips, and the huge smile on his face is contagious.

"Is your coffee especially good this morning?" I ask.

"Yes, but that's probably because of the way I won it."

"I think I came out as the winner last night."

"Yeah," he repiles, that sly, sexy look in his eyes. "But I've got the bragging rights."

I grin, feeling a blush flood my cheeks as I look down at my feet. Edward swipes his finger across the back of my hand, and it sets off this flurry of nerves that make my stomach dance. Sometimes my body reacts more to these secret touches than the not-so-secret ones.

"We'll have to wake up earlier so we can do this at home," he says, looking over at me.

I'm not sure if it's intentional, but he keeps referring to his apartment as _home_, like it belongs to the two of us. I like the sound of it, the way the words seem to strengthen our foundation.

"Do what?"

"Have our coffee together. I've been thinking about it, and the best part is that we can do it half-naked."

"You'd have us do everything half-naked if you could."

"No." He smiles, biting on the edge of his cup as his lips curl up. God, it's cute. I want to be that cup. "I'd have us do everything_ completely_ naked if I could. There's a big difference."

"That could be dangerous if you spill."

Edward winces.

"Not a chance," he says, leaning down close to me. "You know I've got great hands."

Even in a hallway full of people, when his lips have pressed against every part of my body they possibly could, he still manages to fluster me, and I hope this feeling never, ever goes away. So before I wind up pushing him into a disgusting Janitor's closet to do dirty things, I ask him what he'll miss the most if I get this job.

"There'll be no one to pull office pranks anymore. That thing you did to Tyler's cubicle with the styrofoam peanuts and pixie stix was pretty epic."

"Be serious!"

"I don't know, Bella." he mutters, his eyes soft. "It's tough to say."

When the elevator doors open, we flood in, Edward and I taking our corner like we always do when we have company. He twists his fingers around mine, our hands nestled discreetly between my body and the wall, and as the elevator goes up, my heart flips. Once the door opens on the fourth floor and everyone files out, Edward exhales a deep breath that makes my hair tickle my cheek. His arm snakes around my waist and he pulls me close, then rests his chin on the crook of my neck, kissing the skin there.

"_This_," he whispers. "This is what I'll miss the most."

I close my eyes, and for the next six floors, Edward and I are the only two people in the world.

When we walk back in the office, Jessica hands me my file, all her earlier attitude gone. I work on my project for Garrett until it's time for me to leave for my interview, and as I close down for the day, my heart starts slamming against my ribs. I take deep breaths to wash the nerves away, reminding myself of the one piece of useful advice that my mother seems to have given me.

It's always easier to find a job when you already have one.

As I'm sliding my resume and references into my bag, my phone rings. I grin when I see that it's Edward.

"I'll meet you out front," he says, then quickly hangs up.

That grin lasts throughout my elevator ride, and I wait for Edward by the fountain outside. He sneaks up behind me, startling me as he slides his fingers through mine.

"C'mon," he says happily. "I'll walk you over."

His face is serious as he gives me interview tips, and my nerves calm as we walk hand-in-hand into the building's lobby.

"No one is more qualified for this job than you are," he says, reaching up to cradle the back of my neck. "No one's more organized, more intelligent, more beautiful than you."

"I don't think that last part is a requirement."

"I just wanted to make sure you knew." He smiles, and oh, I love him. I _do_ know that he thinks I'm beautiful. I can feel it every time he looks at me. "Hold your head up," he says, straightening my lapel. "Smile." His thumb brushes across my chin. "You've got this."

"I've _got _this."

"I love you," he whispers as his forehead touches mine.

"I love you, too." I give him a quick kiss, and when the elevator comes, I say, " I'll see you later tonight."

He waves at me as the doors close, and I ride up to the fifth floor with a ridiculous smile on my face. It's still there when I'm introduced to the company's president, and I follow Edward's advice as I'm riddled with question after question. The longer I sit in this chair, the more I realize that I _am_ the most qualified person for this job. I _am_ the most organized. And I've definitely got this.

I'm not even two steps out of the building before I dial Edward's number on my cell phone, and he picks up before the first ring even finishes ringing. I tell him I have to go back on Tuesday, and he grumbles that they should've been able to make a decision on the spot. He tells me that he's proud of me and thinks I'm amazing, and just when I think I couldn't be more in love with him than I already am, I trip over all his perfect, encouraging words, and I fall even harder.

Since I have the afternoon off, I run a few errands that I haven't had time to do lately, then I go to my apartment to change and pick up a few things. When I open the door, warm air washes over me. I haven't had the air conditioning on in a while, since I've been staying at Edward's so often. And it's strange looking around, because this place doesn't feel like me at all anymore. Looking at my things, all I can see is the sofa I picked out with Jake the day after we moved in here, and the chair I bought to help fill the hole that he left in my life when he walked out this front door for the very last time.

The thing is, this apartment used to feel so full, and I used to feel so empty. Now I'm the full one, and this place is some ghost of a life that just isn't mine anymore.

After I wash a load of clothes and change into a more comfortable outfit, I make my way over to Edward's apartment and let myself in. It feels a little strange being here without him, but he's spent such a long time coming home to an empty house that I want him to walk through the door to a kiss and a smile from someone who loves him. So I turn on the stove and start dinner, careful to make extra for lunches during the week.

I eat alone, because I'm too hungry to wait, and once the leftovers are packed up in the refrigerator, I rearrange a few of the cabinets. If I know anything about Esme, it's that she likes her independence, and it'll be easier for her to reach some of the kitchenware if it's in the lower cabinets and drawers. That way, if she wants, she'll be able to make her own lunches instead of having to ask the home healthcare nurse to do it for her.

It takes me a couple of hours to move everything around, and the second I close the last cabinet, the front door opens.

"Bella?" Edward calls over the clang of his keys hitting the counter.

"I'm in here." As if it would be hard for him to find me in this place.

"Hi." He looks so tired with his hair all disheveled and his tie loose. But there's light in his eyes that I haven't seen in a long time, and it makes my heart skip a beat.

"Hi," I reply, smiling. "Are you hungry?'

He nods sleepily, and I put the plate I made for him into the microwave.

I've barely pressed the 'start' button before he lifts me up to sit on top of the counter.

He plants his hands on either side of my thighs, then leans in and kisses me. I love the way his lips feel against mine, the sweet scratch of his stubble against my chin. The kiss is soft at first, but his hands wind their way around my waist, and my hands wind their way into his hair. We press against each other, lips and bodies, like we have to be this close to live and breathe.

"What's that for?" I ask over the hum of the microwave, my lips swollen and my mind reeling.

"Because this has been the _best_ day."

I reach up and pull Edward's tie through its own knot until it unravels. This is one of my favorite parts of the evening, when he slips off the day and changes from the person everyone knows into the one that only I'm lucky enough to see. I unbutton his cuffs and slowly roll up his sleeves, and Edward smiles, because he knows how sexy I think he looks like this, all comfortable and undone.

"Tell me how good it was."

He cups my face in his hands, and his smile, God, his _smile_. I don't think I've ever seen one like it. It makes his lips look like they were made to stretch like this, and his eyes are so beautiful that I almost can't stand it.

"Mom's walking."

For a second I think I've forgotten how to breathe. "She's-"

"Walking. She's putting one foot in front of the other, and _walking_. I wish you could've seen her."

"_Edward_." I feel like crying, and I wrap my arms and legs around him, pulling him close, so this beautiful moment can't slip out from between us.

"I know," he says. "I walked into her room tonight, and she was fucking walking, Bella. She was using a walker, but…I wasn't sure if she'd ever get to that point, and when I saw her, I just…"

I kiss his forehead, his cheeks, his lips, his chin, everywhere I can reach. He's laughing this gorgeous, relieved laugh that I've never heard before, and it's the most wonderful sound.

"Wow." I push his hair away from his face, and I just smile at him. All I can do is _smile_.

"It was just a few feet, but tomorrow she'll walk a few feet farther, and then the day after, and…I forgot how short she is. When I'd come home from college, I used to wrap my arm around her shoulders and mess up her hair. She hated that. Turns out she _still_ hates it. You're here, I'm starving, and dinner smells amazing. It's just...the best day."

He kisses me again as the microwave dings, whispering that he loves me as his lips brush mine. And I love him, too. More than anything.

When Edward looks at his plate and realizes that I've only reheated enough food for him, he seems a little disappointed.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I already did," I say, my voice quiet. "I got hungry."

"Jesus, I didn't realize what time it is. Will you still sit with me?"

He's _so_ cute. And he must be starving, because we barely sit down before he starts eating.

"I, um...I rearranged some of the dishes so that they'd be easier for your mom to get to. I should've asked before I did it, I hope you don't mind."

He's chewing, but he manages a grin. "I don't mind. Thank you for thinking of doing that."

As he eats, he tells me about Esme's progress with her physical therapy, and that her doctor is cautiously optimistic that she may only need to have home healthcare for a month or so.

Edward had initially been told it could be _months_.

"That's amazing," I tell him, and it's like all the stress that had been weighing him down, constricting his muscles and sagging his shoulders, has melted away. Because even though he doesn't want to say it—if Esme's recovery required a million dollars, he would've found a way to get it—this is a _huge_ financial relief for him.

"She looked so happy tonight, Bella. So young. She has a clean slate now; she can start over and live the life that _she _wants." He looks down at his plate, and he's quiet for a moment, before his eyes meet mine. "I couldn't see it before, but...that house. That house was dragging her down."

I want to tell him that house was dragging him down, too, but I don't. Instead, I touch his face, and he kisses my palm.

"I feel better about it now," he says, and I think this might be the closest he ever comes to making peace with the whole thing.

"There's a light at the end of the tunnel."

"A bright one," he says, laughing.

If the look on his face is any indication, it's the brightest.

"Mom wants you to visit her tomorrow."

I've lost track of how many times Esme's asked me to come spend time with her, but each time the offer is extended, I feel warm and wanted.

"I'd love to. What time?"

"As early as you can get there, until as late as you can stay," he laughs.

"Okay," I tell him. "She's got a date."

Once Edward's plate is clean and his belly's full, he goes to the kitchen and cleans up his dishes. I head into the bathroom and take a quick shower, slipping into Edward's favorite t-shirt once I'm dry. When I come out, he's sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt off, elbows resting on his knees.

"What's that?" he asks, pointing to the brown-paper-wrapped package that's resting against the wall.

Even though I only picked it up this afternoon, I'd already forgotten about it. This quick panic short-circuits my chest, because he's so happy, and I don't want to bring him back down again. I should've hidden it, and given it to him some other time.

"It's just something I picked up."

"Is it...for me?" Curiosity always does get the best of him, and it's a pity, because I can't lie.

"Yes," I say quietly, quickly picking up the package before he can get to it. "You don't have to open it right now." I turn to put the package in the closet, but he's quick, and he grabs the edge before I can get it away from him.

"Let me see." He looks at me with those eyes he knows I can't resist, and takes hold of the other corner of the frame. "I always snoop for my Christmas presents. You might as well just give me what I'm going to take later."

He's laughing now, but he won't be laughing if he opens this package, and I want to hold onto the smiles for just a little while longer.

"Let's just wait for-"

He pulls playfully, and I pull not-so-playfully, and together we pull that paper so hard it rips in the perfect place, in an angry diagonal tear, right across the middle. It's a small tear that exposes the small square that's covered in small numbers and letters, surrounded by a small frame.

But this moment, this moment is so very big, and the quiet of it nearly deafens me.

Then he lets out a ragged breath, and I watch his chest rise and fall as he tears the rest of the paper. I can't look, but I can't look away, either.

To most people, this is silly, something they'd never understand. Just a tiny piece of drywall that's been matted and framed. They'd look and probably wonder about it, but the history would be lost on them.

They're just numbers written on it, but they were a plan. It's just handwriting, but it belonged to his father. And it's just drywall, but it framed a house Edward loved and then lost, and I wanted to give him a piece of it that he could keep forever. The most meaningful piece there was.

Edward grips the frame, his head hanging low. I wish I could see his eyes, see his face. Slowly, I sit down next to him, and when I touch him, he doesn't flinch. Between soft kisses on the soft skin along his shoulder, I whisper that I'm sorry. Every sniffle and swipe across his eyes is like a punch in the gut, because I just can't tell him how sorry I am.

"How did you do this?" he whispers.

I don't want him to know, because I'm afraid all the trouble my brother and I went to might make us both sound a little crazy. So I tell him about the thought behind it, because that matters more than the method.

"I couldn't save that house for you, and I couldn't take down that tree in your backyard. But I could get this, and I wanted you to have it. I want you to have all the things that are important to you." As long as there's a breath in my body, I'll make sure of it, always.

His lips on mine are his only response, and our foreheads press together as he thanks me between soft, slow kisses.

"I'm sorry I upset you," I tell him. "Especially after today. The last thing I wanted was to dig up the past that you're trying to get over."

"I'm not upset," he says, smiling this sad, small smile as he cradles the back of my head. "I debated about taking this, and I talked myself out of it. The second I turned over the keys though, I regretted not cutting this out." The redness in his eyes makes the green even greener, and it's the saddest, most beautiful sight. "But you knew. Somehow you_ always_ know."

"It's because I love you so much," I tell him. But we both know it's deeper than that, and there are no words to explain it.

We sit together in the quiet as Edward stares at the frame, and I wrap my arms around him. He's sad, and for the first time, he doesn't try to hide it. He shares it with me willingly, and it's such a special moment, because he's never let me feel the weight of his grief before. It would be so easy for me to take it, to curl my body around it and hold it for him forever, because I wasn't part of the history that makes it so sharp, so painful. Its edges are dull, and the only reason it hurts me is because it hurts him.

"He was always making plans," Edward says quietly, sliding the tip of his finger along the edge of the frame. "This patio, the trip he wanted to take to Paris with my mother to celebrate her fortieth birthday. He kept planning because he thought he had all the time in the world. While he was busy planning, his life was slipping away, and he didn't even know it." He sighs, and looks at me with this quiet sort of determination. "I don't want my life to slip, Bella."

"It won't, I won't let it. When you find those things you want, grab onto them, hold them tight," I say, making a fist. "Don't let go. And if that's not enough, I'll grab on, too."

It's a whimsical kind of sentiment, one that sounds good in theory but is much harder in practice. We both know that if it were true, if wanting something badly enough could keep it with you, he'd still have his father, and he'd still have his house. But it's a nice thing to believe in, and tonight we're all about believing.

He stands and holds the frame against the wall right next to his door, in the perfect place to remind him every day not to take anything for granted.

"I think it would look good here, don't you?"

"I think it would look _great_ there."

He digs around in his closet looking for a hammer, and when he finally pulls one out of his toolbox, he hangs that frame, even though it's ten-thirty at night. Some things can wait, but this isn't one of them.

With the lights out and the curtains open, the moonlight hits that frame just so, and Edward and I lie together, making plans for a life that we'll never let slip. When our eyes are too heavy to keep open anymore, he kisses me and tells me how much he loves me. I tell him how much I love him, too, as we wrap our arms around each other, holding on tight.

And we don't let go.

We spend the next couple weeks preparing for Esme to come home, and enjoying the last bit of the alone time we're going to have for a while. I kick ass at my second interview, and wait for the call I'm sure is going to come. They're making a decision soon, they tell me, and the good thing is that I'm too busy enjoying my life to really obsess over it.

I spend little time at Edward's apartment the first few days Esme's home, because I don't want her to feel too crowded, and I want the two of them to have time to get into the swing of their new routines. Edward calls me every night, and I find that I have a hard time sleeping in my lonely bed in my lonely apartment without him. I guess that's the thing about being surrounded by so much love and life; when it's gone, you acutely feel its absence.

On the third day after Esme's homecoming, I'm getting ready to leave for the evening when she grabs my arm and takes me aside. She tells me she understands what I'm trying to do, and that while she appreciates it, she thinks I'd be better off just sticking around, because I make her son happy, and I belong there with them anyway. She has such a sweet way of reprimanding me that it almost doesn't feel like a guilt trip. _Almost. _

So, I do what she asks.I come over every afternoon, and most days I'm barely through the door before she's hurrying the nurse out, and her independence never fails to make me smile.

Every afternoon we sit at the small kitchen table, chopping vegetables and chatting as the two of us prepare dinner. It's during this time together that she tells me about her life. Some days, she shares stories about her and Carlisle, how they fell in love and stayed in love, even when times were tough. Others, she tells me about her grief, so deep that she didn't think she'd ever find her way out, and the indescribable feeling once she finally did. She talks about the summer she spent working at the Pike Street Market, and the way the smell of the sea water on the wind took her breath away.

She remembers the days when her precocious five-year-old son liked to put a metal bucket over his head and pretend that he was a robot, and how he would spend hours in his bedroom, organizing and filing his prized baseball card collection until it was _just so_. She tears up when she talks about those dark days after Carlisle died, and how still, even now, she feels like she failed as a mother. Her watery eyes and wavering voice make me take her hands, and I squeeze them tight. I tell her to look, _look_ at the man she raised. No failure of a mother could ever be responsible for someone so loving, and giving, and beautiful on the inside.

I feel like I've known her forever.

The most surprising outcome of these long talks between Esme and me is that they give me a better understanding of my own mom. I was never able to fully grasp her intentions, and sometimes I still can't, but having a direct link to the mind of a mother gives me a glimpse at the reasons why she does the things she does.

About a week and a half after Esme moves in, I'm sitting in my car in front of the apartment, and I have the strongest urge to call my mom. It's the strangest thing, a feeling that I don't think I've ever had, at least not for as long as I can remember. I reach for my phone and dial her number, and it's easy, like breathing.

"Mom?"

"Hi!" She sounds surprised to hear from me. But happy. _Truly_ happy.

"I just...I wanted to call you and say hello. And to...to tell you that I love you," I say, my voice cracking.

I hear her take a deep breath, and it seems like a long time before she responds.

"Oh, Bella. I love you, too," she tells me. The words are shaky, but I can tell I've made her day, and hearing that she loves me makes my day, too. And for the first time, there's no nagging, no strings, no caveats. We love each other, and it's as simple as that.

My chat with Mom makes me float; I don't even recognize the feel of the pavement as I walk to the front door. I smile at Esme's nurse as she says goodnight, and I kiss Esme on the cheek.

"How was your day?" she asks as she flips through the newspaper.

"Perfect." I pull a glass down from the cabinet, and fill it with water. "How was yours?"

"I could've done without some of the poking and prodding, but I'm alive, so I can't complain," she says with that mischievous Cullen glint in her eye. On her son, that look makes my insides go crazy. On her, it just makes me smile.

"I guess you can't." She has this way of making me appreciate every little thing that life's given me, and she does it in a way that's not the least bit saccharine or unnecessarily sentimental.

"Did you hear about your job yet?"

"Not yet. I called yesterday, and they told me they'd be making their decision-"

"Soon," she says, rolling her eyes. "That company should call Merriam-Webster and submit a new entry for that word. By their definition, it means any time before the world ends, but not before the next presidential election."

I laugh, and pull out the chair across from her.

"Soon: when Hell freezes over."

"Soon: when your grandchildren's grandchildren will be collecting social security," she says, laughing as she circles something in the newspaper with a black Sharpie.

Curious, I nonchalantly look at the section heading.

"Looking for a job?" I try to sound like I'm teasing her, but it doesn't quite work out, and I see a flash of uncertainty as she meets my eyes. But just as quickly as it appears, it's gone.

"I'm just trying to get a feel for what's out there for me," she says, shifting in her chair. "I don't want to be living in your spare room forever." She's trying to be lighthearted, but I know there's more behind it.

"You're not uncomfortable here, are you?" It was one of the things I was most worried about when Edward and I first discussed me staying with him once Esme moved in. This _is_ her home, and I don't ever want her to feel like she's unwelcome or in the way.

"No, not at all," she says, and her eyes soften as she takes my hand. "There's something beautiful about seeing your whole life spread out before you. And I'm ready to start living it."

The way she says those words makes me start thinking about possibilities. Not just in the tangible things I can see, but in the ones I can't, because I don't have them yet. Imagining what's possible just fills me with wonder, and makes me look at everything differently; like there's a whole new world waiting for me around every corner.

After dinner, right before bedtime, I lean against the bathroom's doorway as I watch Edward brushing his teeth. When I see my bottle of shampoo next to his, our towels hanging perfectly next to each other, and the way the sleeve of his shirt is tangled with the sleeve of mine as they spill out of the top of the hamper, I realize it. This doesn't feel at all like some place I spend the night sometimes.

It feels like _home_.

I walk up behind Edward, wrapping my arms around his waist, and I squeeze him tightly as I kiss the freckle between his shoulder blades. The little shudder that passes through him as my lips press against his skin makes me smile. He takes my hand, spinning me around so that I'm standing next to him, then he runs my toothbrush under the faucet and puts the perfect amount of toothpaste on it.

We stand side-by-side as we brush, and when he bumps my hip with his, I bump him right back. We smile these huge, white, toothpastey smiles, and when I look at our reflection in the mirror, I see my whole life spread out before me.

Esme was right. It really_ is_ beautiful.


	19. Ring Galaxy

**Chapter Nineteen  
**

* * *

**Ring Galaxy**: _A galaxy that has a ring-like appearance. The ring usually contains luminous blue stars. Ring galaxies are believed to have been formed by collisions with other galaxies.  
_

* * *

There's something about weddings that make me feel like everything is right in the world. Maybe it's all the dancing, the smiles, and the promises of forever, or maybe it's the never-ending flow of liquor from the open bar. In the end, it doesn't really matter. Outside of this room, bills, emergencies, and everyday life can wait. We're all safe in here, living, loving, and celebrating Emmett and Rose's new life together.

We're having a hell of a time doing it, too.

Round tables hug the perimeter of the dance floor on three sides, and elegant white linens are draped over them like fresh blankets of snow. Vibrant purple bouquets of hydrangeas pop out of crystal vases set among champagne flutes and fine china, and now that dinner's over, Rose's carefully planned seating chart has been thrown out the window. Everyone's scattered; old friends and relatives catch up with each other's lives, crowding the tables in intimate, lively circles, chatting and laughing so loudly that I can hear them over the music.

My arms are wrapped around my brother as we dance, and I watch my family beneath the bright, crystalline lights that hang from the ceiling, twinkling like stars. I've been looking at some of these faces for as long as I can remember, and some I'm just seeing for the first time today. Then there's the _one—_all green-eyed and perfect—that I want to be looking at for the rest of my life. The man that perfect face belongs to is leading my mother in the most graceful moves she's ever managed, and he's grinning as the two of them make their way over to my brother and me.

"Photographers are taking pictures, Bella," Mom says, somehow managing to make herself heard over the loud swell of music pumping through the speakers on either side of us. "You need to put on more lipstick."

She smiles like someone has a camera in our faces right this very moment, and Edward mouths that he's sorry, his eyes all sympathetic and sweet. Emmett, good brother that he is, quickly turns us to the right, away from Mom and Edward. The dance lessons Rose made him take have paid off, because with deft maneuvers I never would've imagined he was capable of, he moves us through the crowd until at least ten couples separate my mother and me.

"Don't fight tonight," Em says, grinning. "The reception's almost over, and Rosie will kill you if that chocolate fountain gets knocked over in a brawl."

"Yeah, sure. _Rose_ will kill me. Don't think I haven't seen you dipping everything under the sun in that thing."

He rolls his eyes in that playful, Emmett kind of way, the one that lets you know he thinks you're full of shit, but loves you too much to call you out on it.

"Besides, Mom and I don't _brawl_, okay? We're more like a game of _Survivor_, trying to see who can outlast who," I tell him, laughing.

"I would pay to see either one of you eat a beetle; or go two days without a shower, for that matter."

"I've gone two days without a shower. Don't you remember that fishing trip we took with Dad out to Hog Canyon?"

"That doesn't count. You swam in the lake," Emmett says, completely blowing me off.

"It does too count. Fish poop in lake water. That's not getting clean, it's...it's marinating."

"I didn't think anyone could ever turn me off of swimming, but you've just done it."

"I can't believe we're talking about poop at a wedding," I say, sighing.

"Right? The whole reason we took this party out of Forks was so that we could class it up a bit. Way to go, Bella."

He looks at me like he did when we were kids, like he wants to put me in a headlock and rub the top of my head with his knuckles until we're on the ground laughing and I'm screaming for Dad.

I turn my head and immediately find Edward in the crowd, like my eyes just want to be looking at him all the time. He and Mom are still swaying to the music on the other side of the dance floor. He's smiling and politely nodding at whatever it is that she's saying to him. Mom's always talking his ear off about something, and the two of them together make me smile. She honestly likes him and enjoys his company, and he listens to her with an enthusiasm that's sometimes hard for me to muster.

"Look at Edward," I say, nodding in his direction. "He's just smiling away, like she's not nagging the hell out of him."

"She's probably not. You're the only one around here who's had the distinct honor of gestating in her body. Nagging comes with the territory."

"Gestating?" I laugh. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

He looks a little surprised with himself, too. "I think getting married has made me smarter."

His gaze drifts over to Rose, so stunning in her long white dress, laughing as she dances with my father. She catches Em's eye as Dad twirls her, and they look at each other in a way that makes me think of the future, of the day that they'll be at some other wedding for some other couple. Their children will be running around, drinking Shirley Temples and playing hide-and-seek under the tables like Rose's nieces and nephews are doing right now.

Emmett can't tear his eyes away from his wife; he's looking at her all googly-eyed, like the biggest, cutest doof ever. I look over at Edward, my face probably just as googly-eyed and doofy as my brother's, and when Edward's eyes meet mine, my stomach does a little flip. I hope that he always does this to me, makes me feel like my insides are a jumbled-up mess that only he can unscramble.

"Thanks for being my Lady of Honor," Emmett says, all light and happy.

Even though I hate that nickname, the fact that he wanted me up there with him while he took the biggest step of his life makes my heart feel so full, even though tears prick at my eyes. They're the happy kind of tears, though, the ones people don't cry enough of in their lifetime.

"You promised you wouldn't do that!" he says as the two of us swipe at our eyes.

"I know, I know. It's just that…you're _married_."

"That's what happens at a wedding?" His face is full of mock panic, and just like that, my _brother _is back. "I've been tricked!"

"Smartass."

"You know, little sister, I could fling you over my shoulder and spin you around until you barf, like I did when we were kids. Then the last thing Mom would be concerned about is your lipstick."

Well, he's right about that.

"Photographers are taking pictures of us, Emmett," I say, doing my best impression of our mother. "Make sure your sister's ass is a little higher in the air, so they can get her good side."

The two of us crack up, and we're pathetically uncoordinated, making some lame attempt to spin as the song ends. This lightheartedness is a perfect example of what our family always _can_ be, and sometimes _is_. This is what I hope someone takes a picture of.

Rose is almost immediately by Emmett's side, and I wonder if she even waited for the last note to fade before she rushed over here, not that I could blame her if she didn't. She's just beaming from ear to ear, like all the love from the day has taken root inside of her, making her glow from the inside out.

"Mind if I steal him?" she asks. As if anything could possibly keep her from him right now.

"He's all yours." She leans in to give me a hug, and as I wrap my arms around her I whisper, "Take good care of him."

She nods, and there's not a doubt in my mind that my brother has given his heart to the one person who could possibly treasure it as much as my family and I do.

Emmett and Rose hold hands as they walk towards the table where her parents are sitting, and maybe it's my imagination, but it seems like everyone clears the way for them so that they can keep their eyes on each other instead of having to watch where they're going.

It's not long before Edward's fingers slide down the inside of my arm to twine with mine, and he turns me so we're facing each other. God, he looks so good in this suit, so pressed and perfect with his crisp white shirt and red tie. I reach up and straighten that tie, my cheeks hurting from the smile I can't stop smiling.

"Who's that my mom's talking to?" he asks, glancing over at the corner of the ballroom where Esme, Mom, and Mrs. Parker sit, chatting.

"That's Mrs. Parker. She owns the bakery in Forks."

"_The_ bakery in Forks?" he asks with that cute, teasing glint in his eyes.

"Yes, _the_ bakery," I say, tugging on his lapel. "Her husband runs a bait-and-tackle shop out of the back room."

"Is that next door to the gas station-slash-DMV?"

"Actually, that's across the street."

We laugh, and I love the easiness of it, the way it makes the air feel fresher as it flows in and out of my lungs.

"They look like they're having a good time," he says, grinning.

And he's right, they really do.

Esme is so beautiful in her blue dress; it makes her skin look like cream, and the way light bounces off of the caramel-colored curls in her hair shaves about ten years off her face. Looking at her now, it's hard to believe that so much tragedy has touched her life. Even though scars will always mar parts of her skin, tonight she looks fresh, like she's ready to open the door to a whole new world. The way she laughs_—_lips stretched out into a perfect smile as her head's thrown back, hair tumbling over her shoulders_—_is proof positive that no matter what happens to you, if your light burns bright enough, nothing can take it away.

Her recovery has sped up since she's been home, and she's always happy and ready to try new things. She's taking this second chance life has given her, and she's doing the most with it. Now, instead of bills, and nurses, and worry, she's talking about getting a job, and finding her own apartment. She's living life, _loving_ it, and it's all I could've ever wanted for her.

When Edward and I walk up to the table, Esme smiles like we're the only two people in the world she wants to see.

"Edward," she says, her voice all breathy from laughing. "This is Betty. Betty, this is my son, Edward."

"Pleased to meet you," Betty says, reaching out to take Edward's hand. "Good to see you again, Bella."

I tell her it's been too long, and Edward tells her he's glad to meet her, too.

"You two make quite the couple out there." She looks between Edward and me, and when I thank her, all I can do is grin and give in to the blush that creeps up my cheeks, heating my skin.

"They do, don't they?" Mom says as I take the seat beside her.

Even though she's just given me a compliment, she doesn't even try to be discreet as she hands me her compact and lipstick, and I try so desperately not to roll my eyes. Things have gotten infinitely better between us over the past couple of months, and I suppose that she's never going to stop nagging me about something. In all honesty though, I'd much rather have her nag me about my makeup than my life, and these days, I take the little victories where I can get them.

After I put on the lipstick, I give the compact back to my mother. Then, like the universe is giving me some small reward for complying without putting up a fight, Edward reaches over and laces our fingers together, bringing our hands to rest on his knee.

"You're beautiful," he whispers right into my ear, and his breath on my skin warms every cell in my body. I touch his face and kiss him softly, because there's something about watching two people promise to love each other forever that makes you want to be in love. Forever.

And we are. I _know_ we are.

"_You're_ beautiful," I tell him, skimming my thumb across his lower lip. Oh, that lip is so soft and pouty. I think I could spend weeks studying it, the way it makes my heart flutter when it brushes against mine, and how it feels against my skin when he brings me to life the way that only he can.

I look over, and Alice is just beaming at Edward and me. Jasper's beside her, being all attentive, and grinning like a fool as she eats.

"Are you feeling okay?" Edward asks.

As far as I know, Edward's the only one in this place who has any kind of medical training, and even though Alice still has a month and a half to go, Jasper made Edward swear up and down that he knew the basics of childbirth before he'd agree to drive out here for this wedding. I wanted to tell Jasper that he'd have a better shot at making margaritas in Hell before he'd keep Alice away from something she wanted to do, but I figured that was probably a lesson he'd learned many times throughout their years together.

Alice just looks at Edward like she'd love to smack him, but thankfully he's intuitive.

"I'm just making sure," he says, kind of laughing.

"Honestly, I'd feel great if I had some more of those tartlets," she says, licking her fingers.

"I'll find some for you if you dance with me," Jasper replies, southern charm out in full force. "Just a couple of minutes, Al. And I'll massage your back when we get to the room tonight. Deal?"

Alice looks between her plate and Jasper, probably trying to decide if a dance is worth it. Ultimately, I guess it is, even though the smile on her face makes this seem like a pretty small sacrifice.

"Deal," she says, and he helps her out of her seat just in time for the next slow song.

They make their way out onto the dance floor along with the other couples flocking there for what's probably going to be one of the last few songs, since Emmett and Rose are due to leave soon. My heart sinks a little when I see Esme looking longingly out at them. She's told me she loves to dance, but there don't seem to be many singles here tonight.

Edward stands and starts to lead me out too, but I stop him. Instead, I give his arm a little tug, and he leans down close, his ear next to my lips.

"I think you should ask your mother to dance," I whisper.

He pulls away, and it's obvious this is the first time he's thought about it. I guess it's a little unconventional, given that Esme still uses a cane to get around most of the time, but there's not a doubt in my mind that it would make her day. I nod in her direction, and when he sees her face, he understands.

"Why don't we show 'em how it's done?" he says, holding his hand out toward her. Esme grins, but she shakes her head.

"I don't know, Edward."

"Come on," he teases, giving her that smile no one can resist. I bet it got him out of trouble when he was younger. "I won't let you fall."

And when she takes his hand, it's because she _knows_. He won't let her fall. Ever.

They walk a few steps, just to the edge of the dance floor, close to the chairs in case Esme needs to sit down. He wraps his arm around her waist, and slowly, they move.

"Did Edward tell you that I invited Esme to stay with us for the week?" Mom asks.

"No, he didn't," I reply, unable to hide my surprise.

"I thought it'd be a welcome change of pace for her, and…it'd be good for us to keep each other company for a little while."

Esme and Mom immediately hit it off when they first met, so it's not exactly surprising that she'd want Esme to stick around. I'm not even suspicious of her motives like I would've been a few months ago, and this deep, relieved sigh finds its way through my lips. It's so freeing to be able trust this, to be able to accept her offer without wondering what strings are attached.

She and I have always been all wrapped up in this delicate dance, and our rhythm is so easily interrupted. If we're not careful, our feet get tangled and we fall. What I've learned over the past few months is that when she takes a step, I need to take one, too.

"We could come up next weekend to get her," I offer, and I love the way Mom's face lights up, the way those words make her features so warm and beautiful.

"That's exactly what I was hoping you'd say. Of course, this is all just part of my plan to get you home more often."

I feel so at peace when she says things like that, because she's beginning to understand how loved words like those make me feel. That I soak them up, and that they keep all the things inside of me working the way that they should.

"I like that plan," I say, smiling. During moments like these, when she's just being my _mom_, it's impossible for me _not_ to smile. "Oh, but...Esme has physical therapy on Tuesday and Thursday."

"I've already talked this over with Edward, Bella," she says, putting her hand over mine. "I'll take care of her, and make sure she gets to her appointments." She takes a sip of her drink, and smoothes the cocktail napkin a few times before she speaks again. "When you come up next weekend, we could go shopping, and as long as Esme's up for it, maybe we could have lunch afterward. A little girl-time would be fun, don't you think?"

"That does sound like fun," I say, smiling, and my beautiful mother smiles right back.

"So, Bella," Mrs. Parker says, swirling her glass of wine. "Your mother was just telling me that you recently got a new job."

"I did, and I _love_ it," I explain, sounding way more excited than I'm used to sounding when I'm talking about work. But I can't help myself; it's the kind of place I love waking up to go to in the morning, and this is the first time that's ever happened to me. To top it off, the transition hasn't been nearly as hard as I thought it would be; it's wonderful not having to sneak around anymore, and my work is so engaging, which is something I haven't been able to say, well...ever.

I guess this is what happens when you're happy in your personal life. All that happiness spreads, filling in the cracks that pop up everywhere else.

"I've only been there a few weeks, so I'm still learning the ropes. But it's just…amazing."

My mom gently taps my arm, and my eyes are drawn to Edward and Esme, who are just beyond our table, barely moving. I can tell that she's tired but doesn't want to sit down. Edward notices too, but instead of insisting that she rest for a while, he lifts her so she's standing on his shoes, and he holds her up, just like he always has.

I don't even try to stop my tears, because I'll never get tired of seeing the two of them like this. The weakness in one has always brought out the strength in the other, but that always worked against them, because they both kept everything all bottled up. She's shown him that he can't wait for happiness to come to him, he's got to reach out and take it. And for her, now there's no shame in needing a little support every once in a while.

And this particular kind of support is so perfect, because it's a burden on his body, not his spirit.

Edward whispers something in Esme's ear, and as they laugh, all I can do is look at that light in his eyes. They were so dull six months ago, and now that light is all I can see.

"Look at that," Mom says.

"Yeah." I'm smiling, even though my eyes are blurry. "I'm pretty lucky."

She turns my head toward her, cupping my face in her hands, and she kisses my forehead. "I think he's the lucky one."

As I hug my mother, and breathe in that jasmine perfume that shaped so many of my good childhood memories, I realize that nowadays, my spirit's pretty light, too.

After the song ends, we all clink our forks against our glasses, and Rose and Em kiss one last time in front of all of us before they have to rush out to catch their flight to Hawaii. And when we've all piled out onto the hotel's front steps to wave goodbye, we watch as the taillights of their limo wind down the long, curvy driveway. While everyone slowly makes their way back inside, I notice Mom and Dad standing on the very bottom step, where Dad's leaning against the railing, and Mom's leaning against him.

Seeing the two of them together like this, sentimental smiles on their faces as they watch their son drive away towards his new life, I realize how hard it must be to be a parent. How difficult it has to be to raise a person, then set them free into the world and hope that you gave them a strong enough foundation to build on. My parents gave the two of us the strongest foundation they could, stronger than most, and I want to make sure they know that.

I wrap my arms around my mother's waist, resting my head on her shoulder, and soon Dad wraps his arms around me. I want them to know how much I love them, and tell them that even though we're grown now, there's some part of Emmett and me that will always be theirs.

"Remember when you used to take us camping near Hog Canyon?"

Mom says yes, but Dad just hums.

"We should do that again sometime soon."

"All of us," Mom says.

_All of us_. This group of people I love so much who turned into a family while none of us were looking.

I lean over and kiss Mom, then Dad.

"What was that for?" Dad asks. His mustache scratches my forehead, and it makes me feel twelve again.

"I just felt like it," I tell him.

As if Mom magically knows what I'm thinking, she whispers in my ear, "You'll always be my baby girl."

Fights over lipstick and the length of the hem of my dress don't matter at all. Because I'm hers, and I always will be. She takes Dad's place, wrapping her arms around me and holding me tight.

"What was that for?" I ask.

"I just felt like it," she answers, and kisses my cheek.

When Mom lets go, Edward's waiting for me just inside the door. He touches my face, and the sweep of his thumb across my cheek sends this shiver through me that squeezes my lungs and leaves me the best kind of breathless.

"I want to show you something," he says, that sly, mischievous look in his eyes. I'd follow him anywhere like this, and he knows it.

He takes my hand and leads me through the hallway, past gold-framed oil paintings of fields and flowers. At the end, we come to a stop in the doorway of a small, elegant banquet hall. All the tables and chairs are pushed up against the far wall, and the only light in the room is shining on the stage, spotlighting the beautiful, black-lacquered baby grand piano. It looks kind of majestic up there, reflecting the cool blues and purples of the stage lights, and this nervous, excited little jolt buzzes across my skin, because I know exactly what Edward wants to show me.

"C'mon," he says, and I follow him up the stairs and across the creaky wooden floorboards.

The high-pitched scrape of the bench's legs as Edward pulls it out seems to echo in the room, highlighting how alone we are. And I'm glad, because I want to be the only one who hears what he's going to play.

"Is it okay for us to be in here?" I whisper, eyeing the doorway. I want to make sure there won't be any prying eyes or interruptions.

He smiles. "Yes."

I must give him some kind of unintentionally skeptical look, because he kisses me, and when his forehead rests against mine, he says, "I've played weddings all over the western half of this state, Bella. I called in a favor."

"Well, then…play me something pretty," I tell him, as if he could do anything else.

I don't recognize the melody, but I'm so familiar with that fire in his eyes, and the easy smile that makes my heart melt as his fingers brush against those ivory keys. The way those fingers arch is beautiful, and I wonder how one man could be given such talented hands. I'm in awe of the way he brings this instrument to life.

The first time I saw him play in that rehearsal studio with Emmett and Rose, I didn't recognize all this passion, or even begin to understand where it came from. By now, I've memorized that crease in his brow that comes out when he's concentrating, and the flex of his muscles when he loosens up and lets all that passion he keeps pent up inside flow through him.

His whole body responds to the music; his head and shoulders dip along with the melody, and when the notes turn light and happy, so does he. And it's a damn shame that we have bills, and rent, and a future to plan for, because all I want is for him to do the things that make him look like this for the rest of his life.

He closes his eyes and bows his head as he presses the final key, and I turn on the bench, running the back of my finger across his cheek.

"That was beautiful." A tinkling of notes ring out as I place my hand on his, because some part of me wants to touch that music I just heard, to be a part of what made it. "Did you write it?"

"No," he sighs. "I haven't written anything in years. I haven't had the time."

"Soon you will." He's given Tanya his notice, and his last babysitting job is at the end of the month. After that, he'll have time to write, and play, and do anything he wants to. It's been so long since he's had free time that I'm not even sure if he'll know what to do with it.

I know I've got _plenty_ of ideas.

"Yeah," he says, grinning. He turns toward me and presses our foreheads together, and I love how green his eyes are when he's this close, how the gold flecks in them look so deep under the lights.

"I could listen to you forever," I whisper.

"I would play for you forever."

He kisses me, and when we part, I touch the smooth white piano keys. I press one, then two, then three together, but the noise they make is horribly flat.

"I can teach you, you know," he says, his lips brushing my ear.

"That'd probably take…forever."

There's so much forever around us tonight.

"I've got time," he says, brushing his lips against mine.

He's right. We've got all the time in the world.

We leave in the morning after having breakfast with my family, and the trip back to Seattle passes quickly. I'm so exhausted that I fall asleep halfway through the ride, and I don't wake up until we're home. And it's the best wake-up ever, because Edward's whispering sweet words that make my eyes flutter open, touching me with sweet touches that make my body forget what it feels like to rest.

Inside, Edward starts a load of laundry while I stare at the huge stack of boxes in the corner of the dining room, the ones that I've been putting off unpacking since I moved in here three weeks ago. My furniture is in storage, ready to move in when Esme decides that she wants to move out. I really should go through them today, but it's been too long since we've had an afternoon to ourselves that wasn't hurried by doctor's appointments, work, or all the things in life that take us away from each other.

So, instead of emptying those boxes, Edward and I fall into a heap on the couch, and he wraps his arms around me as he flips through the channels on the television. He finally settles on some movie we've both probably seen a hundred times, so we watch some, sleep some, and snuggle some. In the late afternoon, when the sun's shining through the living room window, warming our faces, Edward sits up and suggests that we go out to eat.

Only he doesn't have a restaurant in mind.

I sit on the kitchen counter as he makes our dinner, and I laugh as he spreads mayonnaise on the bread, explaining what he's doing in some high-pitched Julia Childs-esque voice. When he's finished, he packs everything in a tote bag, looking awfully pleased with himself for someone who just pulled off the tremendous task of making a couple of sandwiches. His bravado's kind of cute, and I tease him about his new found domesticity as we walk to our favorite park, for reservations for two underneath our favorite tree.

The early autumn breeze is cool despite the sun, and I breathe it in, letting the crisp air fill my lungs. Soon the leaves will fall, and the rain will settle in for the next couple of months, so I can't think of a better way to spend the end of one of the last fairly warm days we'll see for a while.

After we've eaten, Edward slides his sweatshirt over my head, and I huddle up close to him, our chests pressed together.

"That was a nice wedding," Edward says, resting his chin on the top of my head. "I should know. I've been to a ton of them."

"It really was. It would've been better if they'd had a piano playing during the ceremony, though."

He laughs a little and says, "I don't know, I liked the violins. Besides, from where I was sitting, I had a much better view of the Lady of Honor." He looks so amused, because he knows how much I hate that nickname Emmett gave me.

"I conned the caterer into giving me the recipe for that soup you liked, by the way."

"Too bad you couldn't get the recipe for the cake. I think they put addictive substances in it."

"It's probably a trick of the trade," I tell him, running my finger along the skin above the neck of his shirt. "They have to put something in there to make you forget that it cost two thousand dollars."

"Or not care that it cost two thousand dollars."

"Exactly. But that frosting alone was worth whatever it is that they paid."

"Mmm," he hums against my neck, and the shiver that rushes across my skin isn't from the breeze. "I wonder what some of that frosting would taste like here." He kisses the spot just behind my ear, and then moves those warm, perfect lips along the crook of my neck. "Or here."

"Such a sweet face and dirty mind," I tease. "One of the many things I love about you."

"What else do you love about me?"

"Let me see," I say, tapping my chin as if I have to think about it. And just to torture him a little, I take my sweet time. "I love your smile, and the way my heart flips whenever I hear you laughing. I love that you try to pass off all the bad music on your iPod as something you needed to rehearse for a wedding."

"I_ did _need to rehearse some of that stuff!" He sounds kind of offended, but I see the playfulness in his eyes.

"Richard Marx? No one's played a song of his at a wedding since nineteen eighty-eight."

"Clearly you don't know much about the people of Port Angeles."

"Okay," I laugh. "I'll give you that one."

"Go on," he says, running his fingers up and down my back.

"I love that look on your face right before I wake you up in the morning, when your lips are parted just a little bit and your eyelids are still. Sometimes I run my fingers through your hair, and you press your cheek against my hand, like even in your sleep you were just waiting for me to touch you. And I love that you drive the long way home from work because you know how much I like the trees in that park off of Matthews Street."

"I didn't know you knew I did that," he says, his voice all quiet.

"I do. And I love that you danced with my mother last night, because my father hates suits and every kind of formal function known to man."

He brushes my hair away from my face, and it's the kind of feeling that makes me wish that the wind would always blow, so he can do this over and over again. And when he looks into my eyes, it's much too intense, but being lost in all that green makes me forget that there's a whole world outside the two of us.

"What are you thinking?"

"Your mom, she told me something about you last night while we were dancing, and now I understand your affection for trees a little more," he says, looking at the red-rimmed leaves above us.

"What'd she say?" My heart sinks so far I'm afraid I might make a dent in the ground, because I've got a pretty good idea of what it was.

"She told me about trees," he says, tracing the shell of my ear with his finger. "One tree in particular."

I'm not surprised that she shared this story with him, but I am surprised by how eager I am to tell my own version of it. My mother, she has a good memory, but she can only tell him what trails we took to get there, and how many pairs of jeans my brother and I ruined by hanging upside-down off of thick, crooked branches.

But I think I could make him fall in love with that place, too.

"We have a picture of that tree on our mantle in Forks."

"I'd like to see it," he whispers.

"We had to hike up a trail to get there; this winding, overgrown path that was off the road about halfway between Forks and Port Angeles. Dad knows all those trails like the back of his hand. Mom would pack us lunch, and on the rare days when it wasn't raining, we'd spend our Saturday afternoons in a clearing off that path. It was always so quiet, it made me feel like the words that we said mattered more, because they stayed in the air longer. And sometimes the sun would come out and shine right in this spot in the middle of all these old, beautiful trees, and that little ray was almost too perfect to touch," I explain, and I can almost smell the humidity, feel the damp air in my lungs.

"She didn't tell me any of that."

"I don't think she remembers it the same way I do." Edward twists a strand of my hair around his fingers, and I continue. "Mom and Dad got into a fight while we were there one afternoon, and my dad took Emmett off along one of the other trails, and Mom and I sat at that tree. The trunk wound its way into the ground in this odd tangle of bark, and it made the perfect place to sit. So, we sat there together, and she ran her fingers through my hair. My friend Amanda's parents were getting a divorce, and I asked Mom if she and Dad were going to get one, too."

"That must've freaked her out," Edward says.

"She was so different back then, you know? And she had the _perfect_ answer. She told me that she and my father were like that tree. They met each other, they grew and grew, and they put down roots with Emmett and me. She and Dad would fight, just like leaves fall, but they always come back, more vibrant than they were the year before. She told me the most important thing was that the longer the tree was there, the stronger it got. The thing is," I say, swallowing against this knot in my throat, "it might be a little cheesy or overly symbolic, but it was such a poetic sentiment, especially coming from her. And...I figured that if I was ever going to get married, I wanted to get married there."

He's quiet for a moment, before something pulls him back to me. "No big ceremony with violins, a deejay, and two-thousand-dollar cake?"

"Nah," I tell him, shaking my head. "I've always wanted the roots, and the leaves, and the strength."

"Do you still think about that?"

"What, getting married under it?"

"Well, yeah. But...just...getting married in general. Do you think about it?"

He's _so_ close, I wonder if he can hear the quickness of my breath, the way my heart's pound, pound, pounding in my chest.

"To anyone in particular, or..."

"To _me_, Bella." The words come out quickly, like he's been dying to know the answer to this question his entire life.

I, on the other hand, am dying to be _asked_ a question, one I've never wanted to answer so badly until now.

"Sometimes, but...when I think about you I'm usually not thinking about weddings."

He swallows, and I swear I can hear it. "What do you think about?"

This peaceful wave washes over me, because there's some special kind of comfort in talking about the future with the person you know you're going to be sharing it with.

"I think about how sexy you'll look with a streak of gray right here," I say as I run my fingers through his soft hair, right above his left ear. "I think about sitting on a swing on our front porch, and what our house will smell like at Christmas. And most of all," I say, sliding my fingertips along my favorite spot on his cheek, "I think about what this dimple will look like when you're ninety. So, no. I don't think about getting married to you, Edward. I think about _being_ married to you."

He kisses me, all warm and slow, his hands threading through my hair, and then our foreheads touch.

"Tell me what you want," he whispers.

And this is it. Even though part of me has always known that I would spend the rest of my life with him, this is the first time I'm actually saying it. I thought I'd be nervous, or scared, but there's not a trace of either of those things. I don't know why I ever expected to feel that way, because how can I be nervous when the man who can give me everything I've always wanted opens his arms and tells me to take it?

As I look at him, this slow smile pulls at my lips, and I move a little closer because I'll never be able to get close enough. I knit my fingers through his, and he's so warm. Everything about him is just so _warm_, and he loosens me up in ways that I never thought possible.

"What I want is...for you to make me couch beds when I'm sick," I say, and we both laugh this quick, quiet little laugh that's more tentative than either one of us is used to. "I want you to smile at me every day, and kiss me every night. I want us to huddle up close like this often, because we're always better when we're together. I want a mantle full of pictures, and pencil marks on the doorway of our pantry that show our kids growing up. And when we're really old, wearing diapers, and can't find our teeth, and days like this are foggy in our ancient minds, I want you to help me remember this. How the air felt crisp, and that the leaves were changing, and that we smiled like a couple of goofs because we had our whole lives in front of us."

"What if my mind goes first?" he asks.

"Then I'll be your memory," I whisper. "Tell me what _you _want."

The warmth of his breath brushes my cheek as he looks into my eyes, and my gaze flickers to his lips, because I'm so desperate to hear the words that are going to pass through them.

"I want you to wake me up every morning, because you kissing me is _so_ much better than an alarm clock," he says, laughing. "I want a house with a banister our kids can slide down, and a treehouse they can climb up into. I want a back porch that's big enough for a telescope, so they can look at the sky and know just how big the universe is. I want a basketball hoop in our driveway, and I want to brush my teeth with you every night."

"What about when our teeth are gone?"

"Then we'll brush our dentures together, and every once in a while I'll come out of the bathroom in the morning wearing yours, just to make you laugh."

"That sounds like a deal," I say, laughing already.

And then he cradles my face between his hands, and makes this moment perfect.

"Most of all," he says, smiling, "I want to be your husband."

There's so much _want _between us, and for the very first time I feel like we can grasp at the air around us and make those dreams come true. I want _all_ of them with him.

"I want to be your wife."

He untangles himself from me, and it makes my heart ache.

"No, no, no, no, _no_. Where are you going?" I'm tugging on his arm, he's laughing, and what he really needs to do is just get back down here where he belongs.

"I want to do this right."

"You're doing it right," I say, pulling him to me. "This is the right way to do it."

He takes a deep breath, trying to decide if he wants to give up tradition and just do what I'm asking him to. Finally, he sits down, and I scootch in, wrapping my arms around him so he can't move again.

But he does move, and when he pulls a small, black, velvet box out of his pocket, all the air is sucked out of the atmosphere.

"Edward…"

He presses his finger against my lips, because he knows what I'm about to say, but I don't try to argue with him. I just listen.

"This belonged to my Grandmother Platt," he says, eyes shining. "She and my grandfather were married for seventy years." He somehow manages to slip the ring onto my finger, despite my shaking hand, and once it's on, his smile is more brilliant than the diamond. "And I want seventy more."

"It's beautiful," I whisper, even though that word doesn't come close to doing the ring justice, doesn't even come close to describing it. It's a round diamond in a platinum setting, with small diamonds that stretch along the length of the band. Looking at it now, it's exactly what I would've picked if I'd been able to pick it, and the fact that I have so much _Edward_ wrapped around my finger makes me smile and sigh.

"My mom told me it's Edwardian, but she probably made that up to make it sound more romantic." He traces along the edge of the setting, and I think he likes seeing this ring on me almost as much as I like wearing it.

"Nah," I tell him, wrapping my arms around his neck. "Nothing could make this more romantic."

"Marry me," he whispers, his lips a breath from mine.

It doesn't even take me a second to answer, "Yes."

We both let out these quick, quiet laughs, and Edward holds my face in his hands as he says, louder this time, "Marry me."

"Yes," I repeat, matching my volume to his.

"Marry me!" he shouts, his lips stretched out into the widest smile I've ever seen.

"Yes!" I shout back, because I want the whole world to hear it.

We're all kisses, and pounding hearts, and promises, and forever. And I cry those happy tears, because I can't believe I get to have this for the rest of my life.

His thumbs wipe my tears away, and his lips wipe my words away, and we hold each other close.

"I'll give you roots," he says.

"You already do."

We practically float home, and once we're through the front door, we slip out of our clothes and into the bed. Our lips, and limbs, and bodies, and lives come together under the blanket of stars that light the night sky outside of our window. And as we lie together, muscles weak and hearts happy, skin against skin, I wrap my arms around my forever, and my forever wraps his arms around me.

I wake up sometime in the middle of the night, and even though I'm freezing, Edward's soft snores make me smile. He's all tangled up in the covers, leg flung off the side of the bed, hair a beautiful mess. Gently, with a technique I've perfected over the past couple of months, I slowly begin to extricate him from the knot of sheets. It usually works like a charm, but tonight, everything's different. I figure a steady pull will free the quilt, so I wrap it around my arm, careful not to wake Edward up.

When he doesn't budge, I pull harder, and then harder still until he rolls right off onto the floor with a loud thump. For some reason, I cover my mouth to hide my laugh, as if it would be humanly possible for him to sleep through _that_.

"What the _fuck_," he says in that cute, sleep-hazed voice as he sits up, rubbing his shoulder.

My first instinct is to lower myself back down onto the bed, to pretend like I wasn't responsible. But he hears me laughing because I can't even lie when I don't have to speak.

"You think this is funny?" he asks, trying to sound serious. "I've got some goods here that you definitely don't want to get damaged."

"Aw," I say in mock sympathetic voice that's annoyingly sweet. "I'll kiss your boo-boos and make them better if you quit being such a cover hog."

"I've got a better idea," he says, jumping on the bed and holding himself over me. "Human blanket!"

He goes limp on top of me for just a _second_, and even though the weight of him is nearly too much for me to handle, I don't push him away. I want to feel every inch of him, for the shape of my body to be imprinted on his.

Too soon he flips me over, and now I'm hovering over him, straddling his hips. We're all breathless from laughing, and in the quiet, he laces our fingers together. When he kisses the stretch of skin just above his grandmother's ring, I see the rest of our lives in his eyes.

"Where does it hurt?" I whisper.

His mouth turns up in that crooked smile that lights me up inside, and he points to his wrist, and then the place on the inside of his arm just above that. And then the place just above that, and the place above _that_, too. He wants me to take my time, and I can do this all night, because this is the only place we have to be in the morning.

As my lips kiss a trail along his warm, smooth skin, and my heart races in my chest, turning on every switch in my body, I realize that we had it all wrong when we were standing on Tanya's front porch all those months ago, dreaming about moments like this one.

After all that we've been through together, we'll always look forward to the simple things that other couples take for granted, like movie nights on the couch, wrapped up in blankets, followed by lazy Sunday mornings in bed, wrapped up in each other. Maybe our future is full of those, I don't know. But I do know this.

Edward and I will _never_ be ordinary.

* * *

**I'm sad to say that this is the end of their story. There will be no epilogue. **

**Thanks to Emily who has been so patient while she waited for me to finish this story. She's the best person a gal could ever ask to be auctioned off to. WriteOnTime is my amazing beta, and Beth has the unfortunate task of prereading. As always, I edit the crap out of this, so if there are any mistakes, they belong to me, not them. Thanks to everyone who put up with me and listened to my neuroses while I was writing this (Nina, Beth, Ser, Anya, and Katie to name a few).**

**And thank you all for sharing your kind words about this story with me. If you have a minute, I'd love to hear from you one last time!**

**I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.**


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